


The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop

by dotfic, Merlin Missy (mtgat)



Category: Justice League
Genre: F/F, F/M, Genderbending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-04
Updated: 2010-07-04
Packaged: 2017-10-10 09:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/98061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/mtgat/pseuds/Merlin%20Missy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Justice League learns how the other half lives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters are owned by DC / Warner Bros. No infringement on  
> their copyright is intended or should be inferred.  
> Notes: This was supposed to be a quick, funny little bit of fun with Story Dice.  
> Five, six pages tops. It, um, mutated. The story takes place in that lovely span of  
> time between "Wild Cards" and "Starcrossed," and is very slightly AU due to the  
> latter. Yes, we know it's a deus ex machina. No, we don't care. And yes, we  
> adore Brynne Chandler-Reaves, thanks for asking. No, we haven't read the JL  
> Adventures where Wally wears the dress. Yes, we know we suck.
> 
> We'd like to thank the following people: **ratgirlusa**, for the initial impetus to get this  
> moving, for background info, and for beta reading; **chaoswrangler**, for betaing  
> above and beyond the call of duty (this isn't her fandom); **amilyn**, **batyatoon**,  
> and the Nicole, for being sounding boards at various stages in the development of  
> this story, and also for independently coming up with ... Let's call it more Bruce  
> torture, and not give too much away, yes? Also a nod to **mannoftalent**, who heard  
> the concept, and immediately did voice casting for the League.

Saturday

* * *

Later, Wally thought there should have been a standing rule. The League had  
plenty of them already:

_No guests. _

_No eating or drinking at the controls. This means Flash._

_Nobody but Superman gets to yell at Batman._

_Never let Diana and Hawkgirl go on a mission together without a referee.  
_That one wasn't written down anywhere, but if it had been, it would have been in  
big block letters, underlined three times in red.

_Knock first._ It had taken Wally a while to learn that one, but on the plus  
side, now he knew where John's other tattoo was, and as Bats always said, you  
never knew when information would be useful.

Would it have been so hard to add the very simple: _Don't leave Flash alone on  
the Watchtower when he's bored?_ Later, sure, they'd establish and stick to it.  
Like every other rule, this one would come from experience.

As it was, everyone else was dealing with the Intergang mess in Metropolis, while  
Flash minded the store. No major disasters needed his help. No riots. Nothing  
making a _ping_ in the weird-ass computer monitoring system Bats had set  
up to look for unusual patterns of activity.

He switched the main screen's view to downtown Metropolis. The sound was  
out, but he could sit and watch his teammates mop up the last of the baddies,  
while he sat here, bored and lonely, and ... hungry. In less than a second, he ran to  
kitchen, started the oven on pre-heat, and ran back to the control room.

The little floating man hadn't been there when he'd left.

"Howdy!"

"Um, hi. You shouldn't be here." Flash zipped around him to guard the controls,  
which the little man had already turned to examine.

"Hm. Still using electronics. Primitive, but I can ... " The little man moved his  
hand towards a sequence of buttons.

"Don't touch that." Truth be told, Flash wasn't entirely sure what that set of  
buttons did. Batman had told him to leave them alone, and mostly, he had.  
Really.

"Hey, I know you! Superman told us about you. Mister Mixmaster?"

"Mister Mxyzptlk," said the little man, and bowed from his mid-air perch.

"Didn't Supes say something about you not being allowed to come back to Earth?  
Ever?"

"We're not on Earth." Mxyzptlk vanished and reappeared in the Crow's Nest.  
Flash was there a microsecond later, to see him start pressing buttons.

"Stop that!" He batted the man's hand away, and checked. Fortunately, he didn't  
seem to have caused any damage, like missiles suddenly getting pointed at  
Washington D.C., or anything.

"You're not nearly as much fun as Superman." Flash heard a small _**pop**_. A  
quiet, clacking noise started behind his head. A large typewriter was floating  
behind him, the keys moving on their own.

"Whatever." Flash remembered more of what the big guy had said about  
Mxyzptlk, that he was a troublemaker who got his rocks off tormenting  
Superman. At the time, Flash was getting a lecture (topic: "Why We Don't Stop  
to Chat With Pretty Girls on the Way to a Fight") so he'd thought the guy sounded  
like a lot of fun.

Mxyzptlk zipped past him and tore the paper off the typewriter. "What pretty  
girls?"

"What?" Flash grabbed the paper from the imp and scanned it, as the typewriter  
kept typing. He read: _And then he gave me a stupid lecture on why we don't  
stop to chat with pretty girls on the way to a fight._ "The hell?"

Mxyzptlk pulled off the next sheet. Flash could just see _What the hell?_  
written on the sheet.

"You're typing out my thoughts?" _**click click click click**_

"And they're not that interesting," said Mxyzptlk, dropping the newest paper to  
the floor. "Where's Big Blue?"

"Out." _**click click click**_ "Stop that!"

"Metropolis, eh? I can wait."

"Not here." Flash made a dash to grab him, and really shouldn't have expected it  
to work. "You need to get gone. We're not supposed to have company."

"I'm not company. I'm practically _family_." _**click click click**_ _**rip**_  
"Who's Annoying Uncle Murray?"

"Me, usually," said Flash, and grabbed at him again.

"You're not gonna catch me. You're just gonna embarrass yourself."

"Wouldn't be the first time."

"Suit yourself." The typewriter vanished with another _**pop**_, as did Mxyzptlk.

"Crud." Flash couldn't see him anywhere, and he wasn't lucky enough for the  
guy to have just left. "Think, West." He called up an intruder search on the  
computer. His quarters. "Bingo."

A moment later, he was in his room. Everyone had a small room on the satellite,  
to catch some shut-eye or a shower after a hard day. J'onn lived in his. Everyone  
else used their rooms more or less as hotel rooms: someplace to stay, but not to  
live.

Normally, his room was a little messy, he admitted. He felt that a room wasn't  
homey without at least a couple bags of Doritos and Bugles on the night stand,  
with the empties on the floor more or less in the direction of the trash can. Okay,  
and clothes on the floor with the bags. Blankets too. He just wasn't a neatnik.  
But now his room looked like a tornado had come through. Mxyzptlk had been  
searching.

When Wally stayed at a hotel, he tended to order Pay-Per-View. Which wasn't an  
option up here.

"Put that away!" he yelled.

Mxyzptlk looked up over the top of the magazine, waggled what were hopefully  
his eyebrows, and went back to reading. "Hmpf. This Leonard Maltin guy sure  
has a stick up his ... "

Flash managed to grab it away from him, ripping Miss October in the process.  
He'd liked Miss October, too. "Get out of my room!"

"Why? This is much more interesting than the control room. What else you got?"

"Nothing. Get out before I toss you out an airlock."

Mxyzptlk went _**pop**_ again. And reappeared outside the window. He waved.

_**pop**_ "Not so much an issue, kid."

"Do you ever get less irritating?"

"Not unless I'm losing my touch. And speaking of ... "

"Get. Out." _**pop**_

From outside, he saw the Javelin coming into view. The others would be here in  
just a minute. Flash straightened his room quickly — no use getting another  
lecture on Keeping the Watchtower Tidy — and sped back to the Control Room.

"Hey guys, we've got company. Short guy, big head, bad fashion sense. Has a  
thing for Supes?"

Superman's voice came over the comm link, saying a word Flash had previously  
been certain Superman had never even heard before, followed by: "Mxyzptlk?"

"That's the guy."

"Stay away from him. He's trouble."

"No kidding."

_**pop**_ "Oh good! He's finally here!" The imp chuckled.

"Can't you just ... shoo?" Mxyzptlk folded his arms across his chest and smiled.  
"Right."

"I don't get it. Why do you want to get rid of me? I'm tons of fun!" An anvil  
appeared beside him and fell. "I can be useful." Mxyzptlk popped out and back  
in wearing a small version of Flash's costume. He zipped around the room.  
"Here I come to save the day!" He popped back into his own clothes.

"Why are you here? Don't you have a dimension to go back to?"

"It's boring there. You Earth-losers are a lot more fun." _**pop**_ Miss October,  
clad in only a smile, appeared on his arm. _Amber, her name is Amber and she  
likes toned guys and long walks and horses oh god ..._

"Hi!" chirped Miss October.

"Send her home!"

"You're even more uptight than Superboy! What's your problem?"

"I don't have a problem. I'm at work." Momentarily, he felt the spirit of Green  
Lantern enter him: "There is a time and a place for those things, and this isn't it."  
He tried ending it with the same frown John would use. Which was made much  
harder by keeping his eyes shut and still trying to look through the closed eyelids.

"You look constipated."

He sighed inwardly; he never _could_ make his face do that look right.

"Just. Make her go. Away." The station shuddered slightly as the Javelin entered  
the landing bay. They were going to be here any second, and he was _not_  
going to be able to explain Miss October.

_**pop**_ _Bye, Amber._

"Just trying to help. You've got Issues." He popped into a surprisingly good  
imitation of Sigmund Freud. "You do not like ze girls?"

"I like ze, I mean, I like girls! Just, not now!"

Mxyzptlk / Freud raised his eyebrow. "Now, what can we do about _that_  
kind of attitude?"

"I don't have an attitude!" The elevator door came open, spilling out everyone  
but J'onn, who materialized up through the floor.

Mxyzptlk grinned. "Then you won't mind this little adjustment."

"What the — " He was nauseous, he was dizzy, he was ... Wally fell to his knees,  
tried not to empty his stomach on the floor. His head was full of cotton. Make  
that lead.

_   
**thunk**   
_

"Superman ... " The weight inside his head shifted, let him look towards the so-  
called invulnerable member of their group. Who was curled up and in spasms a  
few feet away. Hawkgirl's mace could block magic, if that's what this was, but  
she was as gone as the rest of them.

The pain in his head, in his entire _body_, built and he gasped in breath to  
scream ...

Gone. The pain was gone. He let out his breath in surprise, waited there on the  
floor for it to return. Nothing.

The little man was laughing. "This is fantastic! I was just going to show Quick  
Drawers a thing or two, but I got Stuporboy and the rest of the Just Us Losers,  
too!"

"Mxyzptlk!" Superman said. It had to be Superman, because that was where  
Superman had been just a few seconds ago, and that was Superman's uniform.  
But he hadn't been a contralto at the time. And he certainly hadn't been a tall,  
rather nicely-proportioned contralto whose short, dark hair had a very familiar  
little curl in front.

"Oh my god," said Wally, and grabbed his throat as the words came out wrong.  
Certain signals his metabolism had been trying to send him now demanded his  
complete attention. He looked down. _Those are so not supposed to be  
there._

A batarang flew by, catching Wally's attention and nailing the little man to the  
wall by the cloth at his shoulder. True to form, Bats had been the first to recover,  
and was stalking over to Mxyzptlk.

"Change. Us. Back. NOW."

_Note to self: Bats is just as creepy when he's a girl._

The little man giggled, apparently unfazed. In the gravest of insults, he ignored  
Batman, instead looking directly at Superman.

"I think it's an improvement. One that should stay a while." The little man  
smiled even bigger. "Kltpzyxm, suckers!"

He vanished as Batman's hand passed through where he'd been.

"What's that last word mean?" Wally asked Superman.

"That we are in very big trouble." He sighed, or maybe she did, pronouns were  
about to become very hard in Wally's head. "Is everyone okay?"

There were a few groans. Hawkgirl, well most definitely not Hawk_girl_  
anymore, stood up slowly and stretched her wings. "Everything seems to still be  
working." She'd retained a slim form, but with more bulk around the biceps, and  
she was taller. She tugged at the top of her outfit to cover what no longer  
technically needed covering, then reached down to help a dazed Diana up.

Diana asked "What just happened?" and then grabbed her throat and screamed.  
Superman, and damn he was gonna need a new name, went to Diana's side while  
Bats turned on his heel and went to the controls.

"This is not happening," said a female voice across the room. GL stayed sitting  
on the floor, knees drawn up against himself. J'onn was carefully trying to get  
him to his feet, but GL was going to have none of it. J'onn was ... Normal.

"Hey, why didn't J'onn change?"

"You are apparently missing a fundamental concept of the word 'shapeshifter,'"  
replied J'onn, finally giving up on coaxing GL.

"This is bad," said Supes.

"You think?"

"Mxyzptlk said his name backwards. He's banished from Earth for ninety days."

"Oh Hera," said Diana, as Hawkgirl said something foul in her own language.  
His. Hell.

"I can't trace him," said Batman. "He's completely vanished."

"I could've told you that. He's gone back to his dimension. He physically can't  
come back until the ninety days are up."

"We're stuck like this?" Wally felt light-headed again.

"Maybe it won't be so terrible," said Hawkgirl. "Walk a mile, right?"

"Right," said Diana, not sounding certain at all. "Perhaps this is an ...  
opportunity. Yes. My muscles are larger, and I don't feel as though the gods have  
taken their favor away." She took an experimental flight up to the top of the  
window and down again. Wally wasn't about to comment on the now-ridiculous  
little bathing suit, but Diana did tug at it when she landed. "Are there any other  
differences I should know about?"

"Hm?" asked Superman. The question was, however, enough to get John to pay  
attention, and Batman to stop whatever it was he was doing at the control panel.

"What do you mean?" asked Hawkgirl, testing the waters.

"You and I are male now. For the time being." Diana shivered, possibly from  
cold, possibly from the same gut-wrenching feeling that was punching Wally right  
in the equilibrium. "That means we are larger in size and we have no breasts."  
Superman reached out and very carefully whacked Wally on the back of the head  
before he could say anything. "Are there other differences?"

"You're kidding, right?"

Diana's new face radiated complete innocence.

Wally got to see a new expression creep over his friends' altered features, and that  
expression was dawning horror. He was certain it was on his own face, and yet  
could not stop himself from asking: "Did your mom ever happen to tell you where  
little Amazons come from?"

"I was carved from clay and brought to life by the favor of the goddess Athena."  
_Well, that's better than the stork story._

All eyes in the room turned to Hawkgirl.

"No way. I'm not her mother."

The dead silence continued. Hawkgirl made a defeated noise and grabbed Diana's  
arm. "All right. C'mon, Fabio. I'm gonna explain a few things to you." Over  
her shoulder, she added, "John, I'm going to borrow some of your civvies.  
Superman, do you have anything that will fit Diana?"

"In my quarters."

"Thanks." Another shudder passed through Wally. Hawkgirl never thanked  
anyone, and that creeped him out just as much as anything else.

* * *

When they were safely out of earshot, Diana started laughing. Shayera tried  
holding her own snickers in, and couldn't. "It's not the innocent act that's so  
funny, you know."

"I know. It's that they buy it every time. But I had to. They were getting ..."  
Diana frowned. "Strange."

Shayera nodded. "I noticed. Let's get changed and sort out this mess."

* * *

Shayera and Diana were out of the room. That made it ... better. John hadn't  
responded, couldn't even look, when Shayera had told him she was taking his  
clothes. He was taking her clothes.

"Oh god."

"Hey, are you gonna be all right?" Flash was right there, looking concerned. The  
costume hung loose on him, which was good, because if John started casually  
checking out his best friend's new rack, he was going to go bonkers.

She.

"Tell me I was just hit really hard in the head during the fight. Please."

"Wish I could, buddy. Come on, no use staying on the floor." Reluctantly, he  
allowed Flash to help him to his feet.

"What are you looking up?" J'onn asked Batman, who was still at the damned  
control panel. As if any of them could control things right now.

"I need to find out exactly what's been done to us so I can fix it."

"I would think that's pretty obvious," said Superman, crossing his arms. Her  
arms.

"Yes. You would." Batman continued typing. Then she paused. "Lantern, come  
here."

John complied, and Batman immediately grabbed the sleeve of his uniform and  
rolled it up.

"Hey!" Batman glanced at the "USMC" and dropped the sleeve.

"So we are in our own bodies."

"You could've asked."

Flash asked, "Still think it's a hallucination?"

"I'm hoping."

"It was magic," said Superman. "Or as close to it as doesn't make a difference."

"We know magic users," J'onn replied.

"You can try, but I don't think they can undo it. I think we're stuck until  
Mxyzptlk comes back."

"We can't stay like this for three months," John said. "We'll be laughingstocks."

Superman said, "At least you don't have a secret identity about to be blown." She  
sighed. "I need to call my parents."

"Not yet," said Batman.

The elevator opened behind them. John refused to watch as their currently male  
members joined the rest.

"What did we miss?" asked Shayera, and damn, but John had to glance over.  
He'd grabbed some pants and an old shirt that wasn't one of John's particular  
favorites, and had at the latter with the scissors to accommodate his wings. Diana  
looked only slightly more comfortable in Superman's jeans and flannel; he kept  
shooting disbelieving looks to the rest of them.

Speaking of clothes ... John willed the ring to refit the uniform, felt the fabric  
snug around him. It wasn't acceptable. Nothing about this was acceptable. But  
at least it didn't hang.

"What if we don't tell anyone?" Batman suggested.

Flash snorted. "You don't think people might notice?"

"I'm saying J'onn looks the same. I'm also saying the world is big enough for six  
new superheroes to take up temporary residence while the Justice League is on an  
extended mission to another part of the galaxy. And those of us with secret  
identities come down with a bad case of the flu."

Flash asked, "Are we up to a hoax like that?"

"What are our other options?" asked Diana.

Batman counted, "We go back to our normal lives, which are immediately turned  
upside-down. We stay here on the Watchtower for the next three months. We  
follow Mxyzptlk to his dimension and force him to turn us back."

"Show of hands for option C," Flash said hopefully.

"How will we convince people we're _not_ us?" Shayera asked, rustling his  
wings.

"New costumes. New names," said Superman. "It's the costume that makes the  
hero in most people's eyes."

Batman added, "In our daily lives, too. We'll need to become long-lost sisters,  
cousins, something." He glanced at Superman. "_Chloe_."

A shadow passed over Superman's face. "Not Chloe. Maybe Clara." Then she  
smirked at Batman. "_Brynne_." Batman's eyes narrowed.

John smirked to himself. _At least those two will drop their "Who's Bigger?"  
contest for a while._

"And I thought today was gonna be boring," said Flash.

"About that," said John. "How did Mxyzptlk get aboard the Watchtower?  
Weren't you supposed to be monitoring?"

"I did! He surprised me!"

"Right."

"Enough," said Superman, or maybe Clara now. "We need to make sure our  
powers still work, or at least work the way they're supposed to. We don't want  
any surprises in the middle of a fight."

Batman turned back to the control panel. "I'm going to start an electronic paper  
trail for our cover stories."

"We're really going to do this?" asked Diana.

"It's our best chance," Superman replied.

* * *

It wasn't nearly as bad as he'd feared. Clark was expecting to be at about Kara's  
power level, so he was reassured when he could still beat down one of Lantern's  
constructs without an issue. Flight: check. Heat vision: check, and Diana's  
bracelets still worked, too. Super speed: check, and ow.

Flash was having a worse time with the speed. She was just as fast as ever, but to  
be perfectly frank, she'd never had to consider support before. Clark felt her pain,  
literally. He was still going to call his parents when he got back to Metropolis,  
but now it was going to include what was sure to be an excruciating conversation  
with Ma, or Kara, about bras. He wasn't sure which prospect was worse.

**_crash_** "Damn." And that wasn't their only problem.

Diana helped Hawkman — at least it was easy to remember — up from where  
he'd crashed. Again. Clark took great care not to notice Lantern wasn't rushing  
to Hawkman's side after each crash, was busy giving a very bad day to one of  
their workout dummies with giant green boxing gloves.

"Maybe you just need to stretch your muscles first," suggested Diana.

"Um, yeah," said Hawkman. "I'll try that. It's just a matter of getting used to a  
new center of gravity. And different wind resistance. And different muscles."  
He found a chair, sat in it heavily. "This is going to be awful. At least you can fly  
with magic."

"It is not exactly magic."

_Speaking of needing new names._ "Diana, what are we going to call you?"

"What do you mean?"

"You kinda have a girl-specific name," said Flash. "GL and I are okay, 'cause we  
don't have the word 'man' in our names."

Clark asked, "Is there another name we could call you that wouldn't draw a huge  
amount of attention?" Idly, he grabbed a steel rod and began bending it into  
different shapes. Super strength: check.

"Perhaps Apollo? He was the brother of the goddess for whom I was named."  
Sure enough, even in the new body, Diana had an air of divinity. He asked  
Hawkman: "I have always wondered, why did you choose your name? I would  
think you would have chosen to be known as Hawkwoman."

Hawkman shrugged. "I didn't choose. Not long after I arrived on Earth, there  
was some dumb newspaper article that used the name, and that's how humans  
referred to me afterwards."

"I'm sure we'll think of something appropriate," Clark said quickly.

Lantern's dummy gave an artificial groan as it came free from its post and flew  
halfway across the room. She changed the ring construct to giant pincers, picked  
it up, and threw it against the wall, where it broke.

"So," said Flash as they watched the pieces of the dummy spill to the floor, "Ring  
still work?"

"I guess." She used it to hover, created some basic forms in the air as she did.  
She dropped the field and stood. "I should get back Earthside."

"I'll go with you," said Hawkman. "It's not like I'm doing much flying here.  
Maybe it'll be better under real gravity instead of the artificial stuff. Besides, I've  
got secret identity issues to fix."

John looked like she was going to object, and then said simply, "Let's go."

"Let us know if anything happens," said Hawkman. Clark watched them leave.

"My powers seem to be intact," said Diana. "I will have to offer my thanks to the  
gods when I return home."

"Then let's see if Batman has come up with anything for us yet."

* * *

Wally had to stop himself from vibrating in the elevator. Now that he was getting  
accustomed to his new form, things felt so different. Besides the support problem,  
he was aware of the cloth on his chest. Also, he was about six inches shorter than  
he'd been, which wasn't fair since Supes was just as tall as before. John and Bats  
both seemed to have lost some height, though not much, and while Diana had  
gained only about two inches, Hawkman had shot up as much as Wally had  
shrunk. He wasn't used to looking up at everyone this way.

And of course, thinking of the inches he'd lost inevitably lead to thoughts of ... the  
inches he'd lost. Maybe that was what was driving John nuts. So to speak. And  
it wasn't like Wally was over-happy at the new sitch, oh no, but he wasn't ready  
to throw a wake for Little Wally yet, either. Because, and this was a very big  
because, Little Wally might be on vacation, but Little Wendy, or whatever she  
ended up calling herself, was already giving him ideas for his next date. Lots of  
ideas. Hey, hadn't some of the girls he'd asked out as Wally turned him down,  
they claimed, precisely because of Little Wally? If they were stuck like this for  
the next three months, there was a whole new avenue of dating Wally was  
perfectly happy to explore. In fact ...

"Are you quite finished?" J'onn glared at him as they exited the elevator.

"What? I just got here."

J'onn gave him a silent, and eloquent, "You were projecting again" look.

"Oh. Sorry." J'onn continued glaring, but did turn his attention back to Batman.  
Or her attention, actually. Just because J'onn could still walk the walk and talk  
the talk didn't mean he wasn't just as much of a she as Wally was. Which was  
probably serving the double purpose of screwing with her just as much as the rest  
of them, while also reminding her of how she was still the last of her kind.

J'onn turned back to Wally, who immediately said, "I'm sorry. Really."

Batman said, "I have believable cover stories set up for those of us who need  
them." She handed out printouts. To Superman she said, "You're officially  
following a lead in Singapore. I've also arranged a 'temporary assignment' for  
Clara MacKenzie at your office, so you can stay in touch with things in  
Metropolis."

"Trust you to be thorough."

Wally scanned the printout. "I'm out with mono?"

"It was believable."

Wally thought about arguing. "Okay, yeah. So what do I get to do instead?"

Batman regarded Diana, thoughtfully. "You said this might be an opportunity. I  
think you might be right."

"What do you mean?"

"We _are_ known. Even our normal secret identities could be compromised  
if we went undercover. But now, our covers can't be blown. We could infiltrate  
some of the organized crime rings."

"You're thinking Intergang," said Superman.

"Right. Things have heated up since Boss Reynolds was gunned down."

Wally knew _this_ bedtime story. After Darkseid left Earth, Intergang had  
splintered into smaller rival groups trafficking in drugs and illegal firearms, one or  
two also dabbling in gambling and prostitution. In the last year, three bosses had  
collected the remains into their own private gangs, each one calling itself  
Intergang and each one vying for supremacy over the other two. The bosses were  
Reynolds, Roberts, and Roussimoff. Wally could never remember their names, at  
least not until Batman suggested he think of them as "The Three R's." That had  
worked fine until three weeks ago: someone had iced Reynolds and half his top  
tier of cronies. Some of his people had fled to Roberts, the others to Roussimoff  
or to their own private lives. Now the two remaining factions fought in the streets  
for control of the whole pie, and bystanders were dying.

Bats continued, "Boss Roberts collects pretty girls. But Diana's well-known and  
Hawkgirl's got two wings too many to go undercover."

Like needles to a magnet, everyone turned to look at Flash.

"What? No. Don't even ask."

"We could put you in a dress," said Superman.

"No."

"She'd need heels," said Diana.

"Stop it. Women wear pants all the time. I can, too."

"It would aid the illusion," said J'onn.

"But ... Look. I've never seen either Diana or Hawkgirl in a dress. I refuse to go  
in drag ... "

"It's not drag if you're female," Superman said.

"Nuh uh. I refuse to wear a dress unless one of you has seen one of _those_  
two in a dress." He grinned, sure of an easy victory.

And then Batman smiled.

* * *

"Stupid Paris. Stupid Kasnia."

* * *

Bruce had run it over in his mind and knew he would need help. While the rest  
were otherwise distracted, he'd found a moment alone to sneak into the practice  
room and ran through a few standard training exercises. The rest of the League  
had been so preoccupied and curious about whether their superpowers still  
functioned, no one had thought to check on Batman's abilities.

Which was just fine with him. Her. Whichever. The less they knew the better.

While the others' powers seemed to be intact with only slight, or no, reduction,  
when he did the exercises, he discovered he was off. The knowledge and the skill  
were still there — he was still a formidable martial artist. But he was too slow.  
Off balance. Several times he had miscalculated how much force he would need  
to strike an object, how quickly he could move, how much power was behind his  
punch. He was unused to his new body, enough that he was no longer sure of his  
ability in a fight. He was a danger to himself and his teammates in the field,  
unless he did something to compensate.

And to do that, he'd need help.

Asking the rest of the League was out of the question. He had enough trouble  
maintaining his equal footing with superpowered aliens and metahumans as it  
was.

There was only one place he could go, where they had already seen him  
vulnerable, where he could trust them totally without question.

"Wayne Manor."

"Alfred, I need you to listen closely."

"Who is this?"

"Alfred, it's me."

"I am sorry, young lady, but you will have to ... "

"It's Bruce."

"I beg your pardon? If this is some kind of a prank, I must warn you, that .. "

"I can't explain over the phone, but it is me. I swear to you. Something's  
happened. I'll be home soon."

"I really must insist ... "

"Password: Zorro."

"Oh. My."

Bruce terminated the call. He had made sure of being alone in the  
communications room before contacting Alfred. The others didn't need to know  
the first thing he'd done was call home, or that he was planning intermittent visits  
there while all of _this_ was going on.

* * *

"Are you going to talk to me now, or are we going to pretend we're not both in  
this bubble all the way back to Earth?"

"Wouldn't know where to start. Besides, I'm not sure how this change affects my  
willpower. If I get distracted, I might lose the field and we'd be spaced." He kept  
his eyes on the growing planet. Okay, so there didn't seem to be any problems  
with the ring, and he had checked fairly well before they'd even left the station,  
and yes, it was hard trying to ignore the only other person in a force-field that was  
only about ten feet in diameter, and ...

"Why don't we start with, how are you feeling?"

"Fine. I'm feeling fine."

"Sure you are."

"Can this please wait until we're on the planet?"

Shayera scowled, but stayed silent. It was only when they veered west towards  
Midway City that he spoke again. "Where are we going?"

"I'm dropping you off at home, remember?"

"I thought that's just what we were telling the others. Your place is bigger, and  
everyone in your building knows what you do for a living. And I thought we were  
going to talk."

_Doing a lot of thinking for once, aren't you?_ It was mean, and unfair, and  
he kept it to himself. Shayera's impulsiveness was one of the things John loved  
about her. There was something strongly attractive about someone who threw  
herself fully into whatever she did. He did.

John rubbed his forehead, and against his better judgement, redirected them  
towards his hometown. They touched down on the roof of his building, and John  
ringed back into normal clothes before they entered the stairwell. He was all too  
aware of Shayera right behind him on the stairs, somehow seeming even closer  
than in the bubble.

_Please don't let anyone see us._ His silent prayer was answered as they  
entered the apartment. While John checked for messages on the answering  
machine — none — Shayera sat on the couch. John went into the bathroom,  
splashed water on his face, spent a few minutes looking at the stranger in the  
mirror.

"In fact, I do have all night," came the horrible voice from the living room. John  
flicked off the bathroom light.

Shayera sat as he always sat, that is to say, like he did when he was still a she. He  
tipped his head up as John approached him, and there was that little half-smile.  
All the body language was exactly right.

John sat on the other end of his couch and stared. "It really is you in there, isn't it.  
This isn't some screwed up dream. You're not an imposter or a clone. It's real."

"You think I'm not asking the same things? I mean, yesterday ... "

Well, yes, yesterday. And the evening before. Twice. He couldn't deny it  
anymore: the man on the couch was the woman he loved. "Wrong" didn't even  
begin to cover it.

He found the words, finally. "Are you all right?"

"About what? Being switched inside out? Not being able to fly?" Shayera's  
wings twitched in annoyance. "Or about the way you keep trying not to look at  
me?"

"This isn't easy."

"It wasn't easy yesterday, either. You're the one who keeps telling me it doesn't  
matter that we're different species. Fine. I can deal with that, I think."

"So can I." John stayed on his end of the couch, so much so his side pressed  
against the arm.

"But you can't deal with this?"

"It's easier for you."

"I. Can't. Fly. What am I supposed to do in a fight, ask Sinestro to come down  
so I can hit him over the head?"

"You'll relearn. You've still got your wings. And you handle yourself fine on the  
ground."

"And you've still got your ring and your training. What's your problem?"

"Look at us! You have ... man parts! And I don't!"

"Temporarily." Shayera's mouth quirked. "It's like you said. I see a ... "

"Don't."

"Fine." He propelled himself off the couch. "You were the one who said we  
should talk about our feelings. You were the one who wanted to jeopardize our  
working relationship, our friendship, and possibly our lives in the middle of a  
battle. Now it's a little harder, and you don't even want to think about this ..."  
His arm flailed, looking for the right word. "_Thing_ we're trying to build?  
Well great. Maybe we should have had what's-his-face change us all last week,  
and saved us the trouble."

"Yeah, I can just picture trying to deal with Joker like this." He indicated his new  
form.

It was like slow motion. Shayera had started to walk towards the door, stopped,  
and turned around.

"You think you traded down."

"What?"

"'Easier,' you said. You think Diana and I got the better deal."

"I didn't say that."

"You did. I've spent two years defending you and the other men on the team  
every single time Diana came out with one of her little comments. And you know  
what? I'm thinking maybe she's been right all along." John didn't need any  
psychic powers to feel the anger rolling off him. He reached the door, pulled at it  
harder than necessary before remembering the deadbolt.

John shot a green hand in front of him before he could exit, and walked up behind  
him.

"Get that out of my way." The tension in his shoulders threatened that the wings  
wanted to flare, as if he longed to spread them and fly right out the window.

"Where are you going to go?"

"Home." Shayera turned back to the door.

"Gonna hitchhike?"

"I'll get there. Haven't tried flying in regular gravity yet, might be okay."

"You should stay."

"No, I should get the hell out of here before either of us says something we can't  
take back. Or does something."

His stomach clenched, just a little. Shayera's temper was only endearing when  
one wasn't its object. It wasn't so much a matter of force — John was sure most  
of the team was stronger, even Flash — but Shayera made up for a lack of  
physical strength with a complete inability to stop fighting until she was  
unconscious. Also, big mace. The ring meant John was fairly sure he could still  
take him in a fight if things got violent, but he wasn't sure he was willing to do  
what it would take to stop him.

He dropped the construct.

"Go."

Shayera paused. Then he came back inside. John's heart did a flip-flop, until  
Shayera walked past him to the corner where the spare backpack was stowed. He  
grabbed it, didn't put it on, stared for a moment at John before walking back  
towards the door.

"Be careful. If you can't ... If you can't find a way home, come back."

Shayera didn't reply.

* * *

John left the spare key in the usual place, and stayed half-awake for hours,  
listening for the door to open.

He eventually fell asleep alone on the couch.


	2. The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop** (2/5)  
> A Justice League: TAS story  
> by Merlin Missy (**mtgat**) and Constance Eilonwy (**dotsomething**)  
> Copyright 2004  
> PG-13

**The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop** (2/5)  
A Justice League: TAS story  
by Merlin Missy (**mtgat**) and Constance Eilonwy (**dotsomething**)  
Copyright 2004  
PG-13

* * *

Sunday

* * *

It was well after midnight by the time Clark arrived home. The apartment was  
dark, but he knew his way around without needing the lights. There was the  
phone table. There was the kitchen. Everything was exactly as it should have  
been, nothing had changed.

Except Clark.

Even with the time zone difference, Ma and Pa would already be in bed. He'd  
have to call tomorrow. Tomorrow was Sunday, so he'd wait until they got home  
from church. That gave him a little over twelve hours to come up with a new  
costume and a new identity and an explanation that wouldn't give Pa a coronary.

_"Ma, remember how you said you always wanted a girl?"_ Maybe not.

Or figure out a way to contact the Fifth Dimension and get changed back. That'd  
do in a pinch.

All things considered, it could have been worse. Mxyzptlk had an odd sense of  
humor, and might just have decided to zap Flash outside the satellite without a  
spacesuit, taking all of them with him. Or maybe created a black hole in the  
control room. Comparatively speaking, this was just another little bump in the  
road of a superhero's life.

Well, bumps. Lord, he was starting to sound like Flash.

He cast a longing look towards his bedroom; the world would surely be a better  
place viewed from the other side of some sleep. Then with a sigh, he clicked on  
the lamp at his desk, powered up the computer, and started researching costume  
ideas. Preferably something with coverage.

* * *

It was almost morning in Paris. The sun hinted at rising through the open curtains  
at Diana's window as she let herself inside. Sleep beckoned, but so did a shower,  
and the only clothes she had that would fit were the ones she'd borrowed from  
Superman. She had no more use for male fashions than she did for those of  
females, but Man's world had a firm nudity taboo.

There was the matter of a new superhero identity. Diana never wore a disguise or  
a mask, never did anything to hide her identity from the world. Although, given  
the changes she'd undergone, she could see merit with _not_ advertising her  
status as the Princess of Themyscira.

A mask, perhaps. Something simple. For the rest, spandex seemed popular as a  
material. She had cloth, from which most of the dresses in her closet had been  
sewn. Simply buying a bolt of linen or damask was luxury enough after learning  
to spin and weave. Buying actual clothes?

A smile crossed her features. She had not made all her clothing. The scarlet, the  
black peasant, the midnight blue, the shoes to match each, those had been gifts  
from Queen Audrey.

It was already daybreak in Kasnia. If she left now, she could chat with Audrey  
over eggs and toast and coffee.

Or be turned away by her guards as a stranger. She frowned.

The mirror she'd been avoiding beckoned. Her jaw was strong, and already  
touched with a hint of fine hair. She'd have to ask one of the others about  
shaving. She still had Mother's clear blue eyes, her firm brow. The angles on her  
face added character, she decided. Her shoulders were as broad and muscled as  
Superman's.

She could still use that shower. And that nap. And possibly breakfast since it was  
almost certain she wasn't going to go see Audrey this morning, or anytime soon.

First things first.

The altar was small, had only a few candles. Diana lit them, offering up morning  
praises, and thanksgiving that her Amazon gifts were still her own. As she spoke  
the familiar words, and those not as familiar, a stray thought wondered if Audrey  
fancied dark-haired men.

* * *

Feeling self-conscious, Bruce rang the doorbell of his own mansion. It was the  
only wise thing to do; Alfred didn't know who to expect, and on several occasions  
his butler had proved he was handy using the stun gun on unwanted intruders.

The door was opened not by Alfred, but by Tim.

The boy held the door open just a few inches and said, eyes narrowed with  
skepticism, "What's the password?"

"Zorro."

Tim opened the door, suddenly taking on the distant politeness kids did with  
complete strangers who nonetheless had some sort of right to be there. He  
stepped aside, opening the door wide but blocking the doorway so Bruce couldn't  
come in yet.

A tall, thin figure appeared in the shadows behind the boy, then materialized into  
Alfred. "Won't you come in, miss..."

"Alfred." Bruce said, a bit sharply. "As I told you on the phone, it's _me_."

Tim gawked, then wrinkled up his nose in disbelief.

"All right," a quiet, authoritative female voice said from within the hallway.  
Barbara stepped forward, arms folded, her manner clearly telegraphing she would  
tolerate no nonsense. "Tell us who you are. And how you know that password."

Bruce sighed. This was going to be harder than he'd thought. "My name is Bruce  
Wayne. I'm Batman. The Justice League had some trouble with Mr. Mxyzptlk  
and this ... " he waved a hand over his newly curved body, "is the result." He'd  
changed into the civvies he kept on the Watchtower for emergency use: jeans and  
a black t-shirt, both of which hung loosely on his slender but wiry form.

"Perhaps you had better come in," Alfred opened the door wider, stepping aside.  
Once Bruce was in, he shut the door with a solid-sounding thud. Wayne manor  
was built the old-fashioned way, with thick doors and walls, well-fitted to each  
other. Bruce had a moment of panic and he considered bolting.

"Can you prove any of that?" Barbara demanded, as they all stood around in the  
grand entry hall.

"I'll tell you things," he said, "things only Bruce Wayne would know."

"Things you could have found out by spying on all of us. Or using drugs on him."

All three of them turned as Dick Grayson appeared in an open doorway. It had  
been some time since he'd been home, and Bruce was struck by how much taller  
he looked — his face seemed to elongate with each visit. It always struck him  
anew, so that each of Dick's visits home was like that first one, after he'd stopped  
being Robin.

Alfred coughed into the tense silence. "I took the liberty of calling Master  
Richard. Given the uncertainty of the situation, it seemed wise. A precaution."

"I understand," said Bruce. "And Dick has a point. So I'll tell you something that  
couldn't be learned by spying. And you know drugs or torture wouldn't work on  
me."

Dick's arms hung at his sides and despite the fact that he leaned casually against  
the doorframe, he was telegraphing tensed muscles ready to move. "Fine. Give it  
your best shot," he said coldly.

A tiny smile appeared on Bruce's face. "When you don't like what Alfred cooks,  
it's best to use the brass urn, not the Ming vase."

There was a long pause. Barbara and Tim looked puzzled. "Is that some kind of  
code?" Tim muttered to Barbara.

But Dick seemed to have forgotten to stay in battle-ready mode. He took a step  
into the room, then stopped. "Bruce!"

"My word," said Alfred. "Sir, is it really you?"

"I'm afraid so, Alfred."

"Wait." Barbara waved a hand in the air. "You're sure it's him now all of a  
sudden?"

"Yes." Dick nodded.

"But — "

"It's him. Her. Whatever. I'll explain later," Dick said, looking a shade pale.

Tim seemed to be losing an inner battle. He clamped his mouth closed tightly, but  
it didn't prevent the snorting laughs from escaping.

"I don't think that this is at all funny," Bruce said, in a voice that could freeze  
chicken soup.

Tim gave up the struggle. He doubled over, practically howling with laughter.

Barbara was more restrained, only letting the occasional spurt of giggles out. She  
walked around Bruce, eyeing him up and down. Then she stopped and her  
eyebrows went up. "Huh. Guess you have a different perspective on things now."

"_How_ did you say this happened?" Dick asked. If he felt like laughing, he  
gave little sign, although his expression was a bit too preternaturally solemn.

"Mr. Mxyzptlk. It's Flash's fault. I suppose."

"Mister Mix-ill-pit-lick?" Tim tried to sound it out.

"Mix-yezz-spit-lick," Bruce corrected him automatically.

"Mixel-zsplitick...?"

"Give it up, kid," Dick said.

"Sir, there must be something to be done. Surely ... "

"The League is working on it, Alfred. In the meantime, I have a favor to ask all of  
you."

Tim stopped laughing, and Barbara looked at Bruce in surprise. "You? Ask for a  
favor?"

"In my current condition, my fighting skills are off. I've got ... " Bruce started to  
gesture towards his chest, but stopped and waved more vaguely instead. "My  
weight is distributed differently now. I'll have to be retrained to fight like this."

"Sure, Bruce. No problem." Dick nodded his support, but remained staunchly in  
the doorway, almost as if afraid to come closer.

"I presume you will wish to cancel your lunch date with Ms. Lane," Alfred said  
calmly; now that he had absorbed the shock, he coped by carrying on as usual.

"Uh-huh." Bruce covered his face with his now female hand for a moment. "I  
still have to go to Metropolis tomorrow. I'll be back in the evening." He paused.  
"I'll need a few things, Alfred."

"Indeed, sir." The butler held the phone receiver, looking extremely awkward as  
Bruce had never seen him look. "I shall see to it."

"Alfred, allow me?" Barbara went over to Bruce and whispered in her ear. After  
a moment of sheer embarrassment, Bruce whispered something back. Barbara  
nodded. "I can cover you. So to speak," she smirked. "I have two words for you  
that will make everything a heckuva lot easier."

"What?" Tim asked, curious.

"Sports. Bra."

* * *

The suit was ... passable. Clark had gone with simple dark blue and grey tones,  
purchased from the few fabric stores in town that opened early on Sundays. It fit  
his form more or less, and had a cape. Clark felt naked without the cape. He was  
considering a cowl, but the thought of an eyemask had a certain appeal, especially  
to keep from blocking his ears. For now, he had a half-mask covering his eyes  
and tied in the back like a bandanna.

No family symbol on the chest. No sense drawing too much attention.

The worst part, and the part he had to keep in mind, was that this suit wasn't semi-  
invulnerable like the normal one. If he got hit by a laser blast, or even a knife, the  
fabric wouldn't hold. Of course, the other members of the League dealt with that  
every day, so maybe it wouldn't be as big an issue as he feared.

He needed to go to the Fortress and check on the animals. He needed to activate  
the Superman robot and set it for regular patrols. He needed to flesh out his cover  
story more than what Bruce had whipped up last night. He needed ...

_**rin****g**  
_  
To answer the phone. "Hello?" _Oh damn!_ He almost slammed it down  
again. He had to remember to let the machine get the calls for a while.

"Um, I'm trying to reach Clark?" Kara. Thank God.

"Hi, Kara."

There was a small gasp. "I got a call from Batgirl. I thought maybe she was  
playing a joke."

"I wish."

"She wasn't clear on what happened."

"Mr. Mxyzptlk paid us a visit."

"Oh." She paused. "Do you need anything? I can be there in a few minutes. I  
could bring some clothes."

Clark smiled. "Thanks, but I've already picked some things up. Have you told  
Ma and Pa?"

"I called you first thing."

"Okay, let me tell them. Are they there?"

"Hold on. I'll get them. Clark, are you gonna be okay?"

"I think so. We've got three months until Mxy comes back. I just need to find  
reasons for Clark Kent not to be around for that long." Maybe he could break his  
leg in Singapore.

"You'll let me know if there's anything I can do, right?"

"I will."

"Son?" Pa's voice clicked on from the other line. "Is everything all right?"

Clark bit his lip. "Everything's all right, Pa. I've just gone through a few  
changes."

* * *

This was going to suck.

Wally checked his reflection out in the mirror, and kept telling himself not to get  
either creeped out or turned on. He filled out his "Coed Naked Surfing" t-shirt in  
all new ways, but the jeans didn't fit at all right so he'd resorted to the one pair of  
sweats in his closet.

_Note to self: laundry._

If he was gonna infiltrate Intergang, he was going to need a lot more work to get  
pretty. He'd neglected to get his hair cut for a while — busy with the League,  
busy with his job — so the bright red hair framed his face a little better than it  
otherwise might have. But, and this was a big ol' smelly but, Wally could be just  
impartial enough to judge the girl in the mirror by his own dating standards, and  
the fact was, she was kind of ... plain. Her face was long, and yeah, a little horsey.  
If he was still a he, and she was another she, Wally wouldn't have given her more  
than a polite glance.

He thought through that last part again.

_Ow. Stupid pronouns._

So. Hair. Maybe curlers, or a curling iron. He didn't want to go all out for a  
perm, because no. He'd need some makeup, too.

Wally pushed his cheeks in and up, making the girl in the mirror go through  
various facial contortions. Make that a lot of makeup. And someone who could  
possibly tell him how to apply it. And also? Underwear. While he did appreciate  
the girl-in-boxers look, he didn't want to _be_ that girl.

He thought for a sec about posing in the mirror with the boxers, just to see how he  
looked, when something else struck him. He pulled up his left sweatpant leg and  
gulped. The rest of the League insisted that he dress the part. So to speak. That  
meant pantyhose or stockings, and neither would go well with the small forest of  
fine red hair on his legs.

At least he didn't have to worry about his actual clothes. Bats, not even cracking  
a smirk, had taken Wally's new measurements quickly, and had told him to be  
expecting a package sometime today. Wally was not not not going to ask her  
where the package was coming from, because he was sure the conversation, if it  
ever did take place, would end up giving him mental images that would haunt him  
for the rest of his life.

He needed a purse, and shoes, and a bra, and an alias. The apartment in  
Metropolis would be arranged; Batwoman, or whoever she was now, was not even  
one bit less of a control freak than the old Batman.

It was time to go shopping.

* * *

Barbara, Tim, and Dick had been banished to the mansion's upstairs domain. Not  
even Alfred was permitted down to the batcave. Bruce said she wanted a workout  
before heading for Metropolis.

_Alone. I'll let you know when I need you._

Dick commented on it bitterly after Bruce vanished into the depths beneath the  
house

"He — she — literally shows up on the doorstep begging for our help, then  
ditches us. Typical."

Alfred pretended not to hear; he long ago seemed to have perfected selective  
deafness. "There are fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies and a pitcher of cold  
milk in the kitchen, Master Richard. If I might suggest..."

"Yeah, yeah." Dick sighed. "Cookies and milk. It'll fix anything." There was no  
bitterness in his voice that time. He had never mocked, and never would mock,  
any kind gesture of Alfred's. On the other hand, cookies and milk seemed so far  
beside the point they might as well have been in another state. Alfred was being  
transparently tactful.

The other two followed Dick towards the kitchen, which was so cavernous it had  
the same hollow, endless feel as the cave, only on a smaller scale, while Alfred  
also vanished, off to do Alfred things. Dick walked so quickly Barbara worked to  
keep up with him, and Tim actually had to jog in their wake. It seemed to take  
forever to get there.

"He is now a she, Dick. Give him a little time." Barbara perched on one of the  
stools at the kitchen island and reached for a cookie while Tim got out the milk  
and three glasses. "Now, tell." Barbara abruptly pulled on Dick's arm, forcing  
him to turn and look at her.

"Huh?"

"The brass urn and the Ming vase. Was this some Batman and Robin adventure  
you boys decided to keep to yourselves?"

"Oh, that. No." He looked down at his feet as if embarrassed.

"Hey, I want to hear this." Tim said, his mouth full of cookie.

"Great," Dick muttered. "Okay, here's the thrilling story. It happened about six  
months after I first started being Robin." He glanced at Barbara and Tim; they  
watched him expectantly.

"It wouldn't have been a problem except the Joker went on a particularly vicious  
rampage and we were so busy we stopped eating in the dining room for a few  
months."

"Is this a Joker story? Cool!" Tim licked off his milk mustache, leaning forward.

"No, it's not a Joker story. I didn't like Alfred's peas and onions."

"Peas and onions?" Barbara had that look on her face, the one she used when she  
was getting ready to say something wise-ass.

Dick swallowed, and continued. "Yeah, I really hated peas, and those little pearl  
onions, yuck." He shuddered. "But I didn't want to hurt Alfred's feelings. I mean,  
it was _Alfred_. So at some point during the meal I'd get up and slide my  
peas into the Ming vase Bruce had in the dining room. Leaving just a few peas on  
my plate to make it look convincing."

"The big-time con artist," Barbara said, amused.

"Big-time. This went on for a while and it was no problem, as I said, at first. I  
would sneak down at night and empty the peas out of the Ming vase into the  
trash."

"Hang on, didn't Bruce see you putting the peas in the vase?"

"Yeah. But I thought I was being sneaky, and I didn't know he knew. After a  
month or so, I forgot to clean them out, when we got real busy with the Joker."  
He stared down into his glass of milk. "It was summer."

"Oh dear," said Barbara.

"And we were so busy, there were no quiet family meals, dinner was sandwiches  
Alfred left for us down in the cave each night. Then we caught the Joker —  
you've heard the story I'm sure — and to celebrate, we decided to have a regular  
family dinner. Alfred went all out: steak, mashed potatoes, gravy ...

"Bruce and I noticed the smell right away but neither one of us said anything. I  
think Bruce was trying to spare my feelings, actually. Not make me feel worse  
about it. And I was kidding myself maybe he didn't notice the smell. Alfred came  
in with the first course, set down the plates, sniffed, and said 'My word, what is  
that awful odor?'"

Dick mimicked Alfred's genteel British tone perfectly. "He started looking all  
over the room, apologizing to 'Master Bruce' that he had obviously been remiss in  
his house keeping duties, or perhaps a squirrel had gotten into the walls and died.  
Meanwhile, I was hoping seventeen ninjas might jump through the dining room  
windows right at that moment, or that the earth would open up and swallow me.  
Finally Alfred's nose led him to the Ming vase. He looked inside and found the  
mess I'd left. 'Sir,' he said — and he sounded unusually upset, for Alfred —  
'Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking this down to your cave to analyze? I've never  
seen anything like it. It could be toxic.' Bruce glanced at me, but all he said was  
not to worry, it probably wasn't. So Alfred picked up the vase. 'I'd better go have  
this cleaned out.'"

"Wait a second." Barbara's eyes brightened with realization. "There is no Ming  
vase in the dining room."

"Not anymore, there isn't," Dick said in a strangled voice.

"Whoa," said Tim. "What happened?"

"I was feeling really guilty, and now Alfred was blaming himself for being a bad  
housekeeper, so I jumped up out of my chair and ran over to help. Alfred said,  
'No matter, Master Richard'" — Barbara snickered at that — "'I am quite capable.'  
I insisted on helping, though, and grabbed for the vase. Maybe I didn't know my  
own strength, but I tugged too hard, his hand slipped ... and the ... vase ... crashed  
to the floor. Shattered into lots of little pieces."

He glanced over at his mentor again, who was now doing push-ups.

"There was a terrible silence. I felt my face turning hot, and I was really scared to  
turn around and look at Bruce, but I did. I thought for sure that was it, it was  
back to the orphanage. So I turned — and he was eating as if nothing at all had  
happened. Alfred knelt down and picked up one of the little pieces.

"'Ming Dynasty, Fourteenth Century, correct, Master Bruce?'

"Bruce just nodded and chewed.

"'Very like the one that you broke when you were Master Richard's age, isn't that  
right sir?'

"'I think you're right Alfred,' Bruce said, in that voice he uses — you know the one  
— when he's trying to convince everyone he's just your average, mild-mannered  
businessman. 'You mean the one we replaced with a plaster copy?' And then he  
glanced at me, and winked.

"'Indeed,' said Alfred. 'Master Richard, if I may be so bold as to offer you some  
advice: if you don't care for a particular food, please just mention it to me and I  
will endeavor to find something more pleasing to your palate.'"

"Did he really say it like that?" Tim chortled. "Priceless. Alfred is the best."

"What happened then?" Barbara said.

"Alfred cleaned up the mess. When he left the room, Bruce beckoned me over,  
and I obeyed, dragging my toes on the carpet, still thinking I was in the biggest  
trouble of my life and wishing for those seventeen ninjas again. But he just  
leaned over and whispered, 'Also? If you need to get rid of something you don't  
like, use the brass urn next time. It's got a lid.'"

* * *

J'onn spent his first watch in a state between slumber and meditation. The alerts  
were set at a high enough volume to waken him should his attention be needed.

In the meantime, repose.

He stretched slowly, with his mind out into the stars, with his body out to touch  
either side of the Watchtower. He placed his shields against the raucous chatter  
from the Earth below him, listened instead to the silences beyond. For truly, out  
into the galaxy proper, there were layers of silence: the silence of minds long  
stilled on his own world, the silence of minds too primitive to reach out bubbling  
in the oceans below Europa's ice, the silent static out past his already too-thin  
abilities to hear. He stretched his mind into the void.

Breath was like its own presence. He spent several minutes simply listening to the  
sound of his own exhalations.

The change shivered through him here. Subtle changes in his physiology,  
unnoticeable to any of those on this world, distracted him from pure thought.  
Stray hormones moved through different pathways. He watched them flow  
through his own body, altering him further in thousands of microscopic ways.

There were far less prominent differences between male and female Martians than  
for the humans and humanoid aliens he knew. Shape shifting meant one could  
hold any form at all, even changing at will from the childbearing to the  
childsiring, and to any multitude of other forms. Back when he had known joy,  
long before the Imperium, he had spent interludes with My'ria'h that would baffle  
and confound his new friends. He would have no suitable explanation for those  
forever trapped in a single form, for those who somehow convinced themselves  
that pleasure and love could be separate entities, who had never joined mind to  
mind and spirit to spirit as their bodies flowed into each other like the seas. Their  
languages had no words for what he had taken for granted.

His breathing grew shallow.

Sometimes he paused like this, paused his breath, his pulse, became a perfect  
statue, considered holding both forever. Sometimes the loneliness threatened to  
consume him.

The Flash had been correct in his, no, _her_ otherwise nonsensical musings.  
J'onn was alone, more so even than Superman who had grown from childhood on  
this world. Now he was a female Martian, a bitter joke for that he was still the  
last Martian, and neither as childsiring nor childbearing could he change that fact.

**   
_beep_   
**

He had sired his children, had lost them too. They had grown from My'ria'h's  
body and gained life and now they were dust on a dead world and nothing he did  
could bring them back.

**   
_beep_   
**

His breath held and held.

**   
_BEEP_   
**

J'onn exhaled, inhaled deeply, allowed the station to return around him. The  
monitor beeped at him, and belatedly, he pressed the button. Earthquake.  
Argentina.

And this was why he never stopped his heart entirely. There were other children,  
on the spinning world below him, and someone needed to watch over them. He  
could be stepfather to a new world if need be. Or stepmother, as the case was.

* * *

J'onn's voice came over the link: "There's an earthquake at the Argentine -  
Chilean border. I'm going to ... "

"I've got it," John cut in.

"Are you sure?" He couldn't identify the third voice over the comm, thought it  
might be Superman.

"Yeah. I'll call if I need help." He cut the link, ringed up his new uniform,  
complete with mask. He couldn't help feeling the mask was silly, but there was  
no need to point out any more casual similarities between John Stewart and ...  
whoever he was going to try being. Maybe Joan, or Jennifer.

Earthquake. Right.

The trip to Argentina took only a few minutes, a time he spent mercifully thought-  
free. The 'quake was milder than he'd expected, the epicenter away from any  
major cities. He helped out as best he could in the nearby towns, helping shore up  
homes, bridges, roads. He stopped a mudslide before it engulfed a family in their  
car. They smiled and waved and thanked him, and he smiled and waved back, not  
giving a name.

Completely routine.

So routine, in fact, that his mind kept trying to focus on his current situation, and  
that was bad. He flew from town to town, checking on structural damage, tried  
burying thoughts of the damage his own structure had undergone.

"GL, how's it going?" There was no way that was anyone but Flash.

John touched the link. "Finishing up here."

"Need any help?"

"No. Shouldn't you be working on that project you've got?"

"Probably, but it's like school, you know?"

"Did you even graduate?"

"I'm not answering that. Hey, if you're almost done there, wanna catch some  
lunch?"

"No, I've got some things to do. Back home." John didn't want to deal with  
Flash, with the _new_ Flash. It wasn't that he couldn't deal with women on  
the team, it was that the women had been, and would again be, men.

"Right. Talk to you later, if I'm not undercover. Or if you're not." Flash's voice  
dripped with insinuation.

"I didn't mean ..." But the line was already closed, and he didn't want to open it  
just to argue with Flash, although the notion had an appeal. There was something  
very natural about yelling at Flash, something that put the world into perspective.  
He'd seen the same effect on Batman. Lecture Flash on whatever knuckle-headed  
thing he'd done this time, feel better about the universe in general. It was a kind  
of Zen.

John could use some instant Zen.

He went back to helping clean.

* * *

Starting over sucked. Shayera had some other words for it as well, but she'd been  
making an effort to stop swearing so much because it seemed to bother John.

She had the theory, she had the practice. Find a not-entirely-high place, jump off,  
extend wings, stretch to catch rising air currents, readjust as needed to maintain  
and/or change altitude. She'd been doing it so long, she no longer had to think  
about it, could even take off straight up from the ground if the wind was right.

Ready.

Jump.

Stretch.

Wobble wildly.

Fall.

Scrape elbows again.

Swear a lot, despite intentions to the contrary.

Repeat.

To be fair, she was getting better. She could stay gliding for several seconds at a  
time, if she concentrated. There was no chance of going for the mace, though,  
because as soon as her mind drifted even a micron, the delicate interplay of  
updraft and downdraft on her wings turned into a very rapid demonstration of the  
law of gravity.

Falling hurt. Getting hurt made her angry. Getting angry distracted her from  
flying and made her fall.

Having arguments in her head with John? Not helpful. Over time, she'd learned  
to open up to the others, to talk to them without being on her guard all the time,  
but John was the only one she could let past her barriers, could actually trust.  
With _almost_ anything.

Now John was freaking out, far worse than Diana, which was unexpected.  
Shayera would have been more than happy to listen, but John didn't want her  
around, seemed almost afraid of her. The only explanation she could think of was  
that John was frightened she might ... press her affections on him. He didn't trust  
her, and that hurt worse than the skinned elbows and the broken bones she was  
going to get if she fretted much more while trying to fly.

She launched herself once more into a promising updraft.

If John didn't trust her, maybe she shouldn't be trusting John when things were  
back to normal. If they couldn't trust each other, then what was the point of being  
together? _That_ led her down even harder paths to think about, because  
maybe trusting her _wasn't_ the smartest thing for John, and maybe she  
should just tell him already, tell him everything, including the part where being  
with him was wonderful and amazing and breathtaking and also temporary.

Oh yes, telling him she'd been lying to him for years was _certain_ to gain  
his trust.

She glided, up up up and over the treetops, trying to clear her mind.

She tried not to think when she was around him, tried not to remember her  
mission or her lover back home. It was so much easier to let herself fall, to block  
out everything but the taste of his mouth, the strength in his hands when he  
touched her. Sometimes she felt like she was holding her breath, knowing as soon  
as she exhaled that she'd blow this fragile dream away. So she kept holding on,  
holding _him_, and against her own common sense, she enjoyed the  
delicious dizziness and prayed to no one in particular that it would not end soon.

She lost the current, banked too hard left to compensate, flailed, hit the ground,  
and skidded to a stop. Pain shot up her left side, and the one good thing about it  
was that the pain pushed other thoughts out of her head, if only briefly.

Time to try again.

* * *

Monday

* * *

Clark arrived early to work Monday, found himself automatically heading for his  
desk, veered towards Perry's office instead. The nice thing about his cover story:  
he could stay put and make sure things were going smoothly. The down side: he  
had to remember to pretend that he was meeting everyone for the first time again.

He brushed at his hair with his hand and took off his coat before approaching  
Perry's door. Since he'd kept his own short cut, there was only so much he'd  
been able to do with it that morning. He'd had a little more luck with the clothes,  
but not a lot. He'd picked up a few blouses and slacks that resembled what he'd  
seen Lois wear to work, but there were only so many that looked right and were  
designed with a six-foot-tall, decently muscled woman in mind. Never mind the  
shoes; they were comfortable and they fit.

Diana hadn't been much help, as she'd never navigated the waters of office  
professional versus office casual, and spent most of her time flying around in what  
amounted to a strapless bathing suit.

"Mr. White?" He tapped at the doorframe. Perry looked up from the computer  
monitor. He had that furrow he always got when he tried to check his email, no  
matter how many times Jimmy tried to show him.

"What? Who're you?"

"Clara MacKenzie. Hi." He stuck out his hand. Perry stared at him. "I'm here  
from the _Duluth Register_? Temporary assignment?" _Bruce ... _

A light clicked on in Perry's eyes. "Right! I got the message a few minutes ago,  
wasn't expecting you in yet."

"I like to be punctual."

"Yes. Well, good. You'll find things go at a fast pace here in Metropolis, so  
you'll need to be on time. Which you are. Right." Perry went back to examining  
his mail. As slow as syrup, he got the mouse and opened a message. "I don't  
have anything worked out for you, yet. I may have you shadow Lane and Kent."  
He clicked on another message, and said something rude under his breath. Super  
hearing: check. "Or I would if Kent wasn't in Singapore. I swear he's spent more  
time gone than here this year."

_Last year, too._ He'd wondered how obvious the absences were getting,  
with all the time he'd been spending with the League.

"Lane should be in soon. You can talk to her then. In the meantime, you can put  
your coat and purse at Kent's desk. Use it until he gets back."

_Purse. Right. Have to get one of those._ "Thank you, Mr. White." Perry  
waved him away, checking more messages. Clark went back out, made a pretense  
of looking for the right place, then sat at his own desk. Perry encouraged them to  
keep the tops of their desks clear, so all Clark's personal effects were tucked  
safely inside. He opened a drawer, saw the picture of Ma and Pa, smiled, and put  
his briefcase away.

"Hey, wrong desk."

"J ... Hi."

"Hi. You're sitting at Mr. Kent's desk."

"Mr. White told me he was out of town for a while." He held out her hand.  
"Clara MacKenzie." The name was coming easier the more he used it.

"Jimmy Olsen. Nice to meet you." Clark noticed that Jimmy held the handshake  
a little longer than necessary. He debated pointing out that he was over ten years  
Jimmy's senior, but Jimmy apparently came to the same conclusion. "Welcome  
to the _Planet_."

"Thanks." As Jimmy wandered off in search of coffee, Clark flipped on the  
computer. He'd checked his email before leaving home, so he used the time to  
visit other news sites, see what had been brewing overnight that hadn't come over  
the link. He'd have to see about pulling watch duty tonight, letting J'onn come to  
Earth and show the flag.

"And you are?"

His head shot up. "Hi Lois!" He recovered, "You're Lois Lane, right?"

"Yes. Have we met?"

"No, but I've read all your work. Clara MacKenzie, _Duluth Register_. I'm  
here for a few weeks." _Or months._ "_The Daily Planet_ has always  
been my dream assignment. It'll be an honor working with you." There. That  
should put the perfect amount of Midwest awe into his voice, something he'd  
been practicing his whole life.

"With me?"

"Mr. White says I'll be shadowing you."

"You can shadow Smallville. I'm busy."

"Mr. Kent's in Singapore." _Ooops._ He froze at the slip, but Lois didn't  
seem to notice.

"Perry!" Lois stormed towards Perry's office. "What's Clark doing in  
Singapore!"

A heated argument later, muffled through Perry's door, Lois walked calmly back  
to Clark's desk. Clark wasn't fooled for a second.

"Perry says you're going to shadow me, hm?" Clark nodded. "Fine. Lesson  
number one: no story is perfect. Proof this." Lois pulled a diskette from her  
purse. "I was working on it this weekend. Let me know when you've finished."

Lois stalked over to her own desk, stowed her purse, and started checking  
messages. Clark debated getting her some coffee, then decided he'd have to  
explain why he knew how Lois took it. A quick glance over to the pot showed  
that Jimmy was already working on Project Happy Lois for the morning.

Lois's phone rang. Clark tried not to listen in too closely. "Lane here. Oh, hello  
Alfred. I see. Yes, I suppose we can reschedule later. Thank you." **_click_**  
"Damn."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. It's just being aggressively Monday today."

"It can't be that bad."

"Smallville's off following a good lead while I'm here babysitting the new kid.  
No offense. And my lunch date just cancelled because he's off to Cairo."

_Date?_

"Coffee, Miss Lane?"

"Thanks, Jimmy."

Clark threw out a line. "Does your boyfriend go away a lot?"

"Bruce isn't my boyfriend. Not anymore. We were just getting together for lunch  
while he was in town."

"Oh." Under the desk, his hand clenched into a fist. "Well, you know men.  
Always jetting off to Cairo."

"Just the ones I know." Lois sipped her coffee. "Where did you say you were  
from?"

"Duluth."

"Any superheroes there?"

"Not that I've noticed."

"Maybe when you're done in Metropolis, I'll come to Duluth and shadow  
_you_ for a while."

* * *

"Hey, Duluth."

"Hm?" Clark was engrossed in the article. After he'd proofed the first one, Lois  
had collected more copy editing tasks from the rest of the staff, leaving Lois  
herself free to phone up contacts for a piece she was doing on foreign investments.  
Currently, Clark was trying to keep his eyes from crossing as he read a stock  
analysis for the evening edition's Business section.

"Since my lunch date had to cancel, want to grab some food?"

"Sure!" Clark saved the file. He put on his coat, and patted the pocket for his  
wallet. Belatedly, he hoped Lois wouldn't notice that Clara had the same kind of  
wallet as Clark, since he hadn't replaced it, or the contents. Luckily Batman's  
sphere of influence included the procurement, on less than twenty-four hours'  
notice, of fake driver's licenses. Clark wasn't asking how.

"There's this great place just around the corner," Lois said as they exited the  
building. "You'll love it."

"I'm sure I will." Clark reminded himself to order something other than the Cold  
Cut Special. He stepped past a small mound of dirty snow sitting against the  
building, not yet melted from last week's blizzard.

"We can go over ... "

A siren blared, just as the comm in Clark's ear spat: "Hostage situation,  
downtown Metropolis. Suspected Intergang link." Clark bit his tongue to keep  
from answering it.

"Oh, I forgot my purse," he lied smoothly. "I'll be right back."

Lois grabbed his hand. "Later. Lesson number two: always follow the story."  
Clark considered objecting, and then followed behind her. He could always duck  
away when they were closer and become ... _Still need a name._

"Got it," said a male voice in his ear, followed closely by a female voice saying,  
"Right here."

A crowd grew around them; it wasn't hard to see where the sirens, or the crowd,  
was headed. Someone was standing out on the twentieth-floor balcony of the  
Endicott Building, holding someone else at gunpoint. Clark focused his vision,  
but didn't recognize either man. They reached the edge of the cordoned-off area  
behind the police.

"Stay here," said Lois. "I'm going to try to get a closer look."

"Wait!" But Lois, long used to assuming rules were designed to keep other  
people out of her way, was already slipping under the just-applied "Police Line -  
Do Not Cross" tape.

"On the scene now," came a voice in his ear. Both ears. He turned sharply. Not  
ten feet away, Bruce held her hand to her ear, inspecting the situation. Clark stole  
over beside her.

"I thought you cancelled," he said quietly. He sighted Lois; fortunately, so had a  
cop. She'd be escorted back out here any minute.

"I still have to sign the papers," Bruce said, looking unsurprised at his presence.  
She was dressed in a simple business suit, probably posing as one of her own  
assistants. "Do you know anything about the hostage situation?"

"I know Lois is trying to go up there to grab the scoop."

"Have you considered getting her a leash?"

"Wouldn't help."

Bruce made a non-committal noise which was probably as close as she would ever  
get to admitting Clark was right. "Do you have a new suit?"

"Yes."

"All right, I'll cause a distraction. You change and get the hostage to safety. You  
can leave the captor for me."

Clark saw a red, gold and black figure streak through the sky towards the building.  
The astonished gunman let loose his hold on the hostage, who was bright enough  
to duck as the red apparition punched his attacker.

Bruce said, "Or not."

_Hi, Diana._

The gunman was tougher than he looked. His head whipped from the punch, but  
he shook it off and launched himself at Diana. Surprised, Diana was knocked off-  
balance and the pair fell off the balcony. The hostage ran to the edge to see.  
Bruce's hand clamped on Clark's arm.

Diana stopped their fall a few feet from the ground. Clark tensed and then  
relaxed.

"Admit it," Clark hissed under his breath. "You were worried."

"That you were about to blow your cover," Bruce replied, eyes still on the scene.

The gunman recovered first, grabbed for the nearest advantage. Which, due to  
some unwritten law of the universe, was Lois. He pulled a knife from his belt and  
held it to her neck.

Diana hesitated as Lois struggled despite the grip on her arms and the blade at her  
neck. Given another ten seconds, Diana would probably have the guy on the  
ground, but Clark had a clear line of sight to the attacker's hand, and no glasses.

The attacker yelped as the knife suddenly burned his hand. Diana took the instant  
distraction, yanked Lois clear, and decked him. Hard.

It was all over, as quickly as that. Diana let go of Lois, then flew to the balcony to  
retrieve the former hostage. Two medics swooped in with a blanket to cover the  
shaken victim as they led him away.

Activity flurried around the scene, and there were too many bodies in between for  
Clark to get a good look. Presumably, the police were thanking the new hero and  
taking the bewildered abductor into custody.

Clark took the opportunity to slip through the tape line for a better look. As could  
be expected, Lois had already started firing questions at Diana. Or, not exactly  
firing. More like asking nicely. And smiling. And Apollo, or whatever he was  
going to end up calling himself, was smiling right back.

Clark had spent a lot of time trying not to notice just how attractive his two female  
coworkers were; that sort of thing would only lead to trouble, he felt certain. On  
the other hand, he was now becoming aware that, just because Diana was no  
longer a woman, that didn't mean Diana wasn't _still_ attractive. "Apollo"  
was simply attracting a different audience.

Bruce was beside him. "Interesting."

"Bruce?"

"Mm?"

"Truce?"

"Truce." They made their way together to where Lois and Diana were chatting.  
Clark got a better look at Diana's new outfit. With a chill, he noticed it had  
several similarities to Diana's Justice Lord counterpart's costume, and he wasn't  
sure if the chill was from that thought, or the reminder that he himself had nearly  
gone with a black and white motif.

"That was a_maz_ing!" The squeak at the end of the declaration made  
Clark's head almost crank off his neck. Bruce's hand was folded at her mouth,  
and her eyes were wide with awe. "The way you saved that man. That was so ...  
Wow!" And she slid right between Lois and Diana. Diana glanced at Bruce  
curiously, and then his eyes grew a fraction wider. _Note to self, Diana knows  
Bruce out of costume._

Clark grabbed the opening. "Lois, I was so worried you were going to be hurt!  
Who's your new friend?"

"That's what I'd like to find out."

The crowd around them grew, and Clark noted more than a few wistful  
expressions on the faces of the women he saw.

"Are you one of Superman's friends?" Lois managed to ask, momentarily pulling  
Diana's attention away from Bruce and the rest of his admirers.

"We've met," Diana replied.

"And what do we call you?"

Diana smiled again. "'Apollo' will suffice. I am here to serve." Clark hoped he  
was the only one who noticed as Bruce rolled her eyes. "I must go." And with  
that, he flew straight up and away.

"Looks like we've got a new player on the scene," said Lois, closing her notepad.  
"C'mon, Clara. Lunch will have to wait. We've got a story to file."

* * *

Diana came to rest atop a building several blocks away. Her heart was still racing,  
and her breathing was too fast. The fight really hadn't been anything, shouldn't  
have been anything, not for who she'd been. Who she was now, that appeared to  
be a different story.

She was hungry. She'd been hungry almost constantly since the change. Her  
bigger body burned more calories _breathing_, and she was doing far more  
than just breathing. This was the fifth crime she'd stopped today. She was going  
to get a reputation. But not if she couldn't control this incessant hunger and  
fatigue.

Maybe she'd contact the Flash later and see how he dealt with it.

* * *

Clark nibbled at his egg salad, stomping on his impulse to wolf it down. That  
would leave his hands free and his mouth unoccupied, and Lois might expect him  
to contribute more to the conversation.

"Is there anyone special back home?"

"No. Not really."

"Word of advice while you're here? Stay away from the heroes."

"I'd think that would be pretty easy."

"You'd think. Here in Metropolis, or Gotham, or any other big city, it seems you  
can't throw a rock without hitting a couple of them. I mean, look at what just  
happened!"

"Apollo seemed nice."

Lois huffed. "Oh sure. They _seem_ nice. All 'Here I come to save the day  
for Mom, apple pie and baseball.'"

"That's bad?"

"Only if you're a bystander. I have a Master's in Journalism with a couple of  
Pulitzers under my hat, a brown belt in Judo, and what happens to me? Every  
other day, someone in tights has to come rescue me. I'm not complaining about  
the rescuing. I'm not. But it's kind of embarrassing. You try to be all liberated  
and modern, but you get invited to speak at grade schools to show little girls what  
they can do with their lives, and you end up answering questions about how some  
big blue hero flies around saving your bacon all the time." Lois sipped at her iced  
tea.

"But that's not really his fault, is it? You lead a dangerous life, and he likes you."

Lois pulled her hair behind her ear and smiled a little as she fidgeted with a french  
fry. "It seems good, doesn't it? I know I sound ungrateful."

"You don't," he said quickly.

"I do. It's just ... Once you get involved with the cape-and-cowl set, nothing's  
ever quite normal again. There are days I miss normal. No life-or-death  
situations all the time, no secret identities to protect, no psychotic supervillains  
hellbent on killing my date. Just me, my career, and maybe a boyfriend who  
wouldn't be caught dead in tights."

"So if you had a choice, you wouldn't ever have met Superman?" A sick feeling  
grew in his stomach that had nothing to do with the egg salad.

"I didn't say that. I wouldn't say that. I'd be dead a _lot_ if I didn't know  
Superman, or Batman, or hell, most of the damned Justice League. But  
sometimes I wonder if I would have ended up getting my life endangered in the  
first place. Road not traveled. I've got a million of 'em. I can pretend they're all  
lined with lilacs."

Clark finished his sandwich, wiped his mouth. Lois dabbed at her own, so as not  
to smear her lipstick. _Something else to pick up this evening and experiment  
with._

Lois put her happy face back on for the office. "Ready?"

"Lead on."

* * *

He waited.

Bruce was very good at waiting, at lurking in the darkness until the prey showed  
themselves. Half of being the Batman meant knowing where the criminals would  
be before they did, and getting there first.

Metropolis General was well-lit and airy, and Bruce didn't like it. There weren't  
nearly as many convenient shadows to pull up and wrap himself in as he might  
otherwise utilize. He felt exposed, and wary, like a lion in short grass, praying to  
its cat-spirits that the wind would not shift.

_Now is not a good time to think about cats,_ he admonished himself.

The advantage, the _greatest_ advantage, to his current predicament was that  
_she_ was unknown. Bruce Wayne sitting in a hospital corridor would  
eventually be recognized and remarked on by someone; "Brynne" got barely a  
glance. It was like being invisible in an entirely different way.

He pretended to read a magazine, while keeping an eye on the police outside the  
gunman's hospital room. His name was Ryan Stevens, Bruce had found out, and  
he was not yet recovered from the blow to the head Diana had given him enough  
to talk.

Diana had been extraordinary, as she always was, but with her natural Amazon  
abilities multiplied by her new upper-body strength, there was a good chance she  
could take on Clark and win. Bruce filed that away with the rest of his private  
information on how to take Clark down in case of an emergency. He'd acquired  
quite a list so far.

Stevens' doctor came out of the room and spoke briefly with the police. Stevens  
would be resting for the remainder of the night under guard, and could be  
questioned in the morning. Bruce nodded to himself, folded his magazine, and  
walked away.

Ten minutes later, he was outside Stevens' window. The regular suit didn't fit  
right, but he had made do with what he had on hand and the cowl. The window's  
lock was easy enough to jimmy. He let himself inside.

Stevens lay quietly in his bed, his head generously swathed in bandages. Diana  
had damaged him well. His eyes opened as she touched to the floor in the  
darkness.

"Who – Who's there?"

"I have some questions for you," he said in _her_ deepest voice.

"Huh?" Stevens fumbled for the call button, but Bruce got there first and struck it  
from his hands.

"Don't even think about it," he intoned. "When the police come in here, they're  
going to have questions of their own."

"Get out of my room, bitch!" he growled back. He squinted in the dark. "Go  
back to Gotham, Batgirl. I got nothin' for you." Then he leered. "Unless you  
want to climb on. Then I got plenty for you. First ride's free, babe." He twitched  
his sheets aside.

Bruce drew back in disgust. "That won't be necessary. You need to tell me who  
you're working for."

"Blow me." Stevens lay back, folding his arms behind his head. If it wasn't for  
the bandages, and the swelling, he would have looked comfortable.

Bruce was losing patience. He grabbed Stevens by the loose material at the neck  
of his hospital gown, pulling him to a sitting position. "There are two ways we  
can do this. My way, or the hard way." He drew back his fist. "Please say you  
want the hard way."

"Better not, honey. You might ruin your manicure. And then I'll be able to say I  
got beaten up in custody. They got problems with that here in Metropolis."

"You can be extradited."

"I never did nothing in Gotham."

"I'm sure we've got a few unsolved crimes you'd fit the bill for." Stevens  
slammed both fists into Bruce's side; at the same time he bent one knee and  
kicked him in the stomach.

Bruce staggered back a few paces, losing his grip on Stevens. In the normal suit,  
he would have been protected by at least five layers of Kevlar; the makeshift suit  
he'd pulled together for this interrogation was only cloth.

"You've got nothing on me." Stevens grinned maliciously. "And I'm not telling  
you anything. Send the real Bat next time if you want to try to scare me."

Bruce's knuckles itched to finish the job Diana had started on this guy, but he  
_was_ in police custody technically, and Bruce wasn't going to give the  
cretin a brutality case. Normally, Batman's presence and demeanor, coupled with  
two gauntleted fists, were enough to make any two-bit crook like this one roll  
over. This new woman had no street cred save what little reflected glory she got  
from Barbara. Intimidation wouldn't work. This could be a problem.

Stevens started laughing as Bruce made his way back to the window, ribs already  
burning. The laughter followed him out.

* * *

_Andre's_ was dead. Not unlike the original Andre. Wally sipped his  
fifteenth ginger ale and tried to look the right combination of bored and sexy. He  
also tried not to keep fiddling with his bra strap. It slid down his shoulder every  
couple of minutes and was bugging the hell out of him.

Bats swore her info said this was a great place to meet Roberts and his pals, but  
apparently Monday night wasn't the best time to go looking for gangsters. He was  
about to pull out a credit card — he'd never had an expense account before and  
Bats had given him a quick but detailed lecture about not abusing it — and call it  
a night.

The party rolled into the club. Four thugs with bulky coats walked in, took a long  
look around the place, then stood aside as about fifteen people followed them  
inside. He scanned the new crowd. There, in the middle of the press, each arm  
around a girl. Roberts.

Wally slid the card back in his little black purse, and tried harder with the "sexy."

The new people filled the club with noise and _presence_, and suddenly the  
ginger ale had that much more of a snap, and the music was a touch better, and the  
neon lights looked more festive than desperate. Amazing.

Wally nibbled on the freebies at the bar: some pretzels, a nice nut mix, nothing  
fancy but just a bit higher quality than had been out a few minutes ago. He tried  
showing some leg.

This earned him a withering stare from the only member of the entourage to notice  
him, a girl who didn't look old enough to be in here without a parent.

_What?_ He stared back until she rolled her eyes and looked away.

An hour went by. He wasn't good at small talk, not when that meant trying to  
cozy up to a guy who looked like he was mostly muscle, then pretend a vapid  
interest in everything the man had to say. Despite being in the room with the  
target, he wasn't any closer to getting an introduction.

The ginger ales caught up with him. _Uh oh._ He could run home, though  
not in these shoes. He'd picked up the basics of certain functions in this body,  
was awfully glad that he didn't have to figure out how to aim anything new, but  
all that had been in private.

Wally sighed. This was silly. It wasn't like he'd ever hesitated about having to  
pee before. He picked up his purse, went to the back with the restrooms, caught  
himself before going into the wrong one, and entered No Man's Land.

There was a couch, the color of sea foam, with matching pillows. And a vase  
with real if fading flowers, and a nice coral-colored lamp instead of fluorescent  
lights, and potpourri. Apparently he hadn't picked up on everything about how  
the other half lived just yet.

While he was occupied, a gaggle of girls from Roberts' group giggled their way  
into the restroom. When he went to wash his hands, the young one who'd made  
faces at him was checking her makeup in the mirror.

_Note to share with all my male friends when this is done. When they go to the  
bathroom in groups, some of them really are just along for company._

Wally checked his own makeup. He'd been provided with some nice cosmetics  
with the clothing, but without instructions, and he'd done his best, but ...

"My makeup looks awful doesn't it?" he asked the girl, despairingly.

She glanced at him. "Trick question, right?"

"No. I'm kinda new to this. I didn't dress up much back home."

"That explains it." She walked closer, and Wally got a deep breath of too much  
nice perfume. She was blonde, and just an inch shorter than he was, and hey,  
wasn't it nice for once not to have Little Wally standing up to pay attention?  
"You look like a tramp."

Wally bit back his automatic "_Says the teenager with too much lipstick._"

"Maybe you could help?" he suggested as someone flushed.

"I don't do hard-luck cases."

The other girls joined her. "Oh, don't be such a bitch, Candi," said one — he  
actually heard the "i" slide into place — "she needs a little steering is all." This  
one was older, by a good seven or eight years if he was any judge. He watched  
her measure him up. "You gotcher makeup with you?"

Wally pulled out a compact, some eyeshadow, and a lipstick. "I have this."

The older girl tapped her ear. "I can work with that. You three go on. We'll be  
out in a minute."

"Thanks!" said Wally.

"No problem. Whatcher name?" He swore she graduated from the same diction  
class as Harley Quinn.

_Name. Name. Crap._ "Um, Molly!" Wait. Molly. Moll. _And I  
thought Bats had no sense of humor._

"Hiya, Molly. I'm Tessi." _There's that "i" again._ He wondered how long  
it would be until he called himself "Molli." Tessi ran some hot water on a fresh  
paper towel. "Now just you hold still. This won't hurt a bit."

* * *

The girl in the mirror was a lot prettier than the one Wally remembered seeing  
earlier this evening. Tessi had teased his hair and given him a spritz from a mini-  
spray can she kept in her own purse. His eyes were deep and mysterious, his  
cheekbones accented.

_Damn I look good._

"Y'know," said Tessi. "When I first looked at you, I knew you were special. And  
you really are, arncha?"

Wally blushed. "Um, thanks."

"Come on," she said, taking his hand. "Let me introduce you around." He  
squeezed back. She was taller than he usually went for, and her hair was darker,  
but as the first woman in a long time who'd spent more than ten minutes in his  
presence without either throwing a punch or needing to hear about his exploits to  
smile at him, she was drop-dead gorgeous as far as he was concerned.

"Molly, this is Smitty. Smitty, Molly."

The guy, one of several cauliflower-eared heavies in the gang, nodded his hello,  
but his eyes said they liked what Tessi had done. "I'll let you two get acquainted,"  
said Tessi, and walked off.

_But ... _

Right. Hit on guys now. Hit on girls later. Get therapy when possible.

"Hi," said Wally shyly.

"Sit down, whydoncha?" He patted the seat beside him. Wally sat down.

"Haven't seen you here before."

"I'm new in town." He'd told Tessi the same thing, adding the line Bats had fed  
him about meeting a guy who got him an apartment, but who hadn't been seen  
around in weeks. Lying was easier when it was almost the truth.

"Do tell," said Smitty, and he smiled. Wally knew that smile, had in fact smiled  
that same smile. That was the smile of a man who'd just met a fresh young face,  
probably not so bright, in need of a firm hand. And guidance. At some point, that  
smile would explain the many benefits of protein to a young woman's diet.

Wally was a nice guy. He was. And in the inevitable aftermath of smiling that  
smile, and explaining those benefits, and suggesting a good way of reaping those  
benefits from a specific protein source, he'd learned how to take rejection well,  
and had never pushed the matter again with any particular girl. Assuming the girl  
in question had not already slapped him in the smile and left, a response with  
which he was also very familiar.

Wally saw that smile, and prayed Smitty was a nice guy.

* * *

Lantern had come to take a double shift aboard the Watchtower. Her thoughts  
were shadowed, and J'onn did not press her further. Two alerts sounded before  
she had even settled into the chair. Diana indicated he would take the first, as it  
was near his present location. J'onn took his leave of his other coworker, and  
piloted the Javelin to the coordinates given for the second alert.

He had not been in Jakarta prior to this occasion. He landed the Javelin outside  
the city, relied on Lantern's directions to the school. Terrorists held a fifth grade  
class hostage at a school in the middle of the city, demanding the release of one of  
their number from prison.

People in the street pointed at him as he floated through their midst. Many had  
seen him on the television, he was sure; he felt respect in some minds, fear in a  
few. The other school children, those who'd been evacuated and who now  
gathered in a loose ring distant from the school itself, watched him with hope and  
a touch of hero worship. From inside, fright radiated. He knew several of the  
children were crying, knew even the terrorists' dread.

_So much fear ... _

The police shouted to the terrorists, who shouted back. J'onn pulled the language  
from their minds.

This would not work. Already one of the terrorists was inching towards the  
trigger for the bombs they had planted.

J'onn dematerialized through the ground, floated quickly to the basement of the  
school. Above him here, no, _here_ ...

He floated up, extended a limb for each of the seven bombs and rematerialized  
midway through the workings of each, pulling out the vital components of the  
bombs as he rose.

The children — _there were twenty-two of them, and this boy teased other  
children for looking Chinese, and that one was afraid someone would find out  
he'd accidentally dropped his infant brother and that was why the baby had a  
broken arm, and this little girl was being touched by her grandfather who lived  
with the family, and there was a single sound repeated in each head of a gunshot  
and it was too much, too much, he wanted to protect them all_ — screamed,  
shrank back from him, cowered in their chairs. The terrorists turned their  
weapons on him, but he still had all his spare limbs, and now each one had a fist.

It took less than thirty seconds. Only one man had the chance to discharge his  
weapon, and that into the wall. J'onn knocked him cold.

Absolutely no one threatened children in his presence. Not if they wanted to live.

As the last man fell, he turned to the class. He could see, now, the body of their  
teacher on the floor in the corner. The children had been told to turn their backs  
before she'd been killed; that was why there was only the sound, not the sight.

"Look at me," he told them in the language they all held common. With sniffles  
and shaking, the children turned to see him. He kept their attention away from the  
corner. "You are safe now. It is time to leave."

He helped them towards the door, distracted their eyes from the horror around  
them, smiled at each as they filed by.

Outside, grateful parents and teachers surrounded them, as the police entered the  
building to apprehend the killers. People encircled him, thanked him, and he  
accepted their thanks as graciously as he could. His shields were high, and still he  
was nearly overwhelmed by the emotions washing around him.

When he could free himself for a moment, he located the girl's mind from inside,  
found her with her mother, told the mother as gently as he could why her father-  
in-law must leave their home. The child watched him with wide eyes, and all he  
could do was hope the mother listened.

Lantern called him, then, informing him of a situation developing in Australia,  
and he left the children to their parents, only a slight ache lingering in his soul.

It was a good day.


	3. The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop** (3/5)  
> A Justice League: TAS story  
> by Merlin Missy (**mtgat**) and Constance Eilonwy (**dotsomething**)  
> Copyright 2004  
> PG-13

**The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop** (3/5)  
A Justice League: TAS story  
by Merlin Missy (**mtgat**) and Constance Eilonwy (**dotsomething**)  
Copyright 2004  
PG-13

* * *

Tuesday

* * *

"Again."

Dick attacked; Bruce — Tim wasn't sure he could get used to calling her Brynne  
— dodged easily, and kicked. Dick back-flipped out of reach, then moved in  
again. He threw a punch which missed by a foot. Bruce grabbed his extended  
arm and flipped him over onto the mat.

Dick rolled swiftly to his feet and attacked again. Bruce blocked each of his  
punches and kicks.

At the edge of the Batcave's workout area, Barbara and Tim watched. Like the  
two sparring, they also wore ordinary workout clothes. There'd be time enough  
later for uniforms. Tim acted as he might at a sports event, seeming to enjoy the  
contest without thought for anything else.

But Barbara, after the sixth or seventh round, had grown quiet. The wisecracks  
she'd kept making earlier in the training session had long since faded.

Dick threw an easy punch, one of the first he'd ever been taught. Bruce caught his  
fist in her palm. "Stop it."

"What?" Dick protested.

"Don't hold back. _They_ won't."

"I'm not!" Dick jerked his fist from Bruce's grasp and stepped away to the side of  
the mat. He swiped the sweat from his forehead. The front of his gray t-shirt was  
lightly stained with sweat. Bruce, on the other hand, looked cool and unruffled.

"Yes you are. I'm not going to relearn to fight like this," Bruce gestured down at  
her new body, "unless I'm forced to. You're going easy on me."

"I'm not holding back!" Dick's voice rose. For a moment, it was like he was  
twelve years old again.

Barbara stepped between them, then turned to look Dick in the eyes. "Yes, you  
are," she said quietly.

"Oh? And how would you know?"

"Because you're doing to him ... to her ... the same thing you used to do to me."

No one said anything for a few beats. Tim began to look uncomfortable; sporting  
events rarely involved emotional confrontation.

When still no one else spoke, Barbara put her hand against Dick's chest and  
shoved him back. "Step aside, wonder boy."

She and Bruce faced off. Then Barbara leapt with a martial arts cry. Her attack  
was swift and looked like it intended to hurt. Bruce dodged, barely. Barbara went  
after Bruce relentlessly, throwing a series of kicks and hits. Her last kick  
contacted. Using her advantage, Barbara grabbed Bruce's arm and flipped her  
over onto the mat.

Dick's jaw dropped. "You just beat him? I mean her? You just ... "

Barbara flapped her hand at him dismissively. "She's not at full form right now.  
That's the only reason I could."

Moving forward, Dick reached out a hand to help Bruce to her feet, but she  
slapped his hand aside, then arched her back, using her hands to propel herself to  
her feet.

She attacked him without warning. Dick was taken completely by surprise and, in  
order to defend himself, had to act on instinct. His kick caught Bruce in the  
stomach, throwing her yards backwards. She landed at the edge of the mat.

Getting unsteadily to her feet, one arm holding her bruised side, Bruce looked at  
Dick's shocked face, and gave him a tiny, fierce grin. "Exactly."

* * *

They kept sparring, but after fifteen minutes Bruce had to insist that Barbara and  
Barbara alone do the sparring for now.

"Sure, of course, no problem," Dick said. "I understand."

Bruce wasn't sure what to say to him. So he said nothing, and watched Dick try to  
hide the fact that he felt embarrassed, apologetic, and at the same time, hurt.

What could he say to him. _You haven't let me down?_ Except he had, and  
they both knew it. _Don't worry, it just takes time to adjust?_ They didn't  
have time.

Bruce remembered when she'd first joined them on the streets: raw, uncontrolled  
talent. There were slow nights out on patrol back when, to Batgirl, Robin was still  
just Robin, and vice versa. Bruce wasn't one for nostalgia, but as the memory of  
those days surfaced, they brought a sharp sense of loss.

Warm spring night, one rooftop, two bored teenagers, one wary adult eyeing the  
city, convinced the quiet was only a harbinger. It was only the second, perhaps  
the third time, that they'd unintentionally met Batgirl in the night, allowed her to  
patrol with them. Batgirl and Robin — full of frustrated energy from their  
expectation of kicking criminals in the teeth and not getting to — starting horsing  
around, laughing and making too much noise. Batman had decided to use the  
interlude as an opportunity, had sharply ordered them into an ordered sparring  
session.

He'd pretended not to pay too much attention, but he'd watched her, wanting to  
test her, to examine her fighting ability.

A wasted effort. Their sparring, while entertaining to watch, was just play; they  
matched each other well, anticipated each other's moves. But Robin was a  
stronger, better fighter and hadn't pushed her. He'd pulled his punches. Batman  
finally had to step in and spar with her himself in order to get any clear idea of  
what she had. He'd already noticed Robin keeping an eye out for Batgirl in  
combat, not even aware he was doing it, always an assist, not a carry. He tended  
to stop blows she was oblivious to before they landed. He wasn't doing Batgirl  
any favors. She wouldn't learn unless she did it on her own.

Talking to Dick about it had been out of the question. The few times he'd tried to  
ask Robin about the new girl, he'd gotten a decidedly biased and uncritical  
evaluation, followed by a hasty retreat into reluctant single syllables.

There were some things even Batman was powerless to control.

The truth was that part of why he'd finally let her into the Batcave after Dick left  
was because he knew without his training, she'd ultimately get herself killed.  
Over time she'd proved herself. But even before that, he'd trained her harshly and  
rigorously.

Back in those early days, when Batgirl sparred with Robin, it always ended in  
laughter and excess energy. When Batgirl sparred with Batman, she limped  
afterwards. She tried to hide it, of course, but they could see.

Dick had accused him of being too hard on her. Of being brutal.

_"I'm keeping her alive."_

"She could barely walk. Didn't you see her wincing?"

"It's necessary."

"Can't you go a little easier on her?"

"If I go easy on her, she'll die. Do you think Two-Face or the Joker will  
pull their punches?"

There had been no answer to that. Stormy-faced, Dick had stalked out of the  
Batcave and back to his dorm.

It was the same speech he'd given Dick when he was ten, and their training  
sessions left the boy limping and sore for days. Alfred hadn't approved, but then,  
Alfred hadn't approved of a child joining him in the crusade in the first place, and  
knowing that the child would have done it no matter what he was told had not  
made Alfred any happier.

Nor Bruce. But Bruce wasn't in this for the happiness.

He'd never shared the nightmares he often had about each of them. He didn't  
dream the same one every night, but some repeated too often. There was one in  
particular about Barbara. It started soon after they began the rooftop training  
sessions and it helped to remind him not to go easy on her just because she was a  
pretty girl or because his sidekick didn't like it when she limped. That dream  
always ended with the sound of a shot, and the Joker in a Hawaiian shirt holding a  
camera, laughing.

* * *

J'onn preferred the silence.

Back home — and there was a thought pattern into which he dared not spiral just  
now — everyone respected one another's basic right to mental privacy. Martian  
children learned to shield their thoughts before they learned to walk. Proper  
telepathic communication meant only reading the thoughts desired, not the million  
pieces of personal minutiae that made up a mind's waking hours. One did not dig,  
one did not press, one did not force communication. To do so was invasive, even  
violating, and those few Martians who engaged in that behavior were considered  
aberrants.

J'onn never meant to pry, not truly. But humans, and Kryptonians, made it so  
very easy to overhear their thoughts. Like infants, they projected every mental  
wandering, every emotion whether noble or base, everything, and had he not  
learned to raise his own shields in defense, he would surely have gone mad years  
ago.

On Mars, he had basked in the massive and quiet presence of his people all  
around, of the calm tendril that was My'ria'h's presence in the back of his own  
mind, of the dancing threads that were his children. On Earth, he was buffeted by  
sight and sound, and while he had encountered a handful of telepaths among her  
people, their gifts were little better than those of young ones just learning to  
properly project. On the Watchtower ...

Inside their minds, his friends were a microcosm of the planet below.

The Flash was loud, and brash, and shy, and more, alternating memories of  
televison programs with imaginings of Diana and Hawkgirl, and with interesting  
and incorrect notions of whatever problem was at hand, and also with ruminations  
of what he would have for lunch. And he was only "The Flash" in his mind when  
he pictured his name in the newspaper.

Superman thought in terms of headlines as well, wondering how to describe his  
latest wondrous deed without sounding as though he was the one performing it.  
He was always "Clark" when he thought of himself in the third person. During  
the brief time J'onn had known the Justice Lord Superman, that had not been the  
case, and J'onn had made a note to watch his own friend for any kind of tendency  
to change who he believed himself to be.

Batman was Batman, always and forever. His emotions were hidden, his thoughts  
tightly ordered. Nearly Martian, J'onn sensed. Batman was comfortable for J'onn  
to be near for long periods of time, almost as much so as Hawkgirl, who was a  
welcome and cool quiet behind her own natural shields. Lantern was less ordered  
than Batman in his mind, still prey to the stray thoughts that characterized his  
species, but he spent more time than the rest attempting to rein in those  
wanderings, for his own sake as much as J'onn's. Diana's thoughts were bright  
and sharp, but always with the backdrop of some melody or another playing just  
beneath the surface, coloring the rest of her mind with music.

It was this music that he noted now, humming quietly to himself a tune he did not  
know, and before the Javelin sent its greeting, he knew who was aboard. His  
silence was gone, but he would gladly replace it with song.

"Javelin to Watchtower."

"Good evening, Javelin. The Landing Bay is ready."

"Thanks, J'onn." Diana brought the ship in smoothly. J'onn listened for a  
lightsome moment to the melody of Diana's thoughts, not wishing to pry deeper  
into the mind.

There was a discordant note, and another, and what was mentally a scream. He  
dematerialized straight away and hastened to the Landing Bay, where he found  
Diana half-slumped in the pilot's seat of the Javelin, barely conscious.

* * *

"Your metabolism has increased dramatically." J'onn watched the monitor, his  
brow furrowed in concern.

Diana wriggled on the biobed, trying to get a look at the readout over her head.  
She knew what the various levels were supposed to look like, and she knew these  
were wrong. At least she was feeling better. "Is it from the change?"

"Most likely. At these levels, your daily caloric intake should be near that of the  
Flash. And that's not taking into account the damage being done on your organs  
by this kind of stress."

Diana sat up. "I'll be fine. It's just temporary." She stood. She fell. J'onn  
helped her back onto the bed.

"You are not well. You are pushing yourself to maintain your normal activity  
levels, and your current body cannot withstand it."

"But that's ridiculous! I feel just as strong as ever. Except for the falling down,"  
she added.

"Nevertheless, you need to rest."

"I _need_ to continue doing what I do. We fight crime, and help people, and  
guard the planet, and I can't do any of that from a bed."

"Nor can you do any of it if you're dead."

She closed her eyes. "_Why_ isn't my new body working? No one else  
seems to have this problem."

"Perhaps it has to do with your Amazon heritage. Your abilities, and those of all  
the Amazons, were granted by your deities, yes?" She nodded. "But the only  
ones to receive these gifts were women. Perhaps part of the reason why is that  
those abilities as they were designed are incompatible with a male physiology."

"Then what am I going to do? I cannot become female again until Mxyzptlk  
returns. I cannot return to Themyscira, especially in this form." She extended her  
arms. "I still have my strength, and my flight, and you're telling me if I use either,  
I'm going to die."

"I fear you could, yes."

She fell back against the pillow. "Then what am I going to do for the next three  
months?"

"You could try living as a normal human. Create a secret identity, become  
someone new."

She tried picturing it: making a real start at a new life. She could stop being a  
superhero, start being ... someone. Cut her hair, grow her beard, find whatever job  
she could without a background, or with a false one created by Batman. Maybe  
even take a clue from him, play the part of the handsome stranger, show up at  
certain parties when certain members of royalty would be in attendance. Act like  
an idiot.

"Or?"

* * *

Wednesday

* * *

"I'll be staying on the Watchtower for the next several weeks." Diana's voice  
came through the static; the satellite was heading over the horizon, about to lose  
line-of-sight communications. "J'onn will return to Earth in a few hours."

"Understood," Clark said. There were acknowledgments and updates over the  
comm from the rest of the team, save Flash. He tried not to worry as he sent his  
own status report.

He didn't have time to worry. He'd just tracked Volcana and Livewire to an  
abandoned warehouse. Well, not exactly abandoned. More like a currently  
unused warehouse. Mostly unused, anyway. Okay, Bruce would just have to deal  
with the incidental damage that was about to occur to one of his Metropolis  
holdings. That's why he was insured, right?

Clark considered his options. He could burst into the warehouse via the roof,  
raining shrapnel, and take the duo by surprise. He could come in through the front  
door and start pummeling. He could zap the padlock on the back door and sneak  
in, possibly catching them both without a fight. He could call the police.

He scanned the warehouse with x-ray vision, noted where the two women were in  
relation to where his potential entrances were. The guards were incapacitated but  
alive, stowed in the back. That encouraged the back entrance idea — he could  
rescue the guards first, then take out the criminals.

"Hey pretty pretty," said the voice directly behind him. Clark spun around,  
wondering how someone had managed to sneak up on him. Super hearing: not  
check.

There was a gun in his face. The thug holding it had "henchman" written all over  
him.

"Look, honey, you don't wanna get hurt. I don't wanna hurt you. So back up nice  
and slow, and I won't have to mess up your manicure."

Clark sighed.

He aimed the punch carefully, so as not to cause irreparable harm. He wondered  
if he would encounter any more hired help while he did a quick tie-up job on his  
would-be assailant.

Back door it was.

The padlock was everything he expected it to be, slagging nicely to the ground  
under his heat vision. He let himself inside and quickly located the bound guards  
in a storage room. He put a finger to his lips and then snapped their restraints.

"Thanks," whispered the first one as he shooed them out the door. Clark debated  
pointing out that his eyes were on his head, but there really wasn't time.

He x-rayed the main holding area of the warehouse. Livewire was examining  
electronics parts, while Volcana sorted what could possibly be containers of dry  
chemicals. Wayne Tech had a small specialty chemicals manufacturing facility  
nearby, so it wasn't out of the question.

A break-and-enter job, then. Good. He wasn't up to dealing with a complex  
criminal plot tonight. It was already past one a.m. and he had to be at work in the  
morning.

He knocked a hole in the wall. He was rewarded with their full attention. "Can't  
leave you two alone for a minute," he chided.

Livewire glanced up and down his new outfit. "Who do you think you are,  
bitch?"

_Drat. Name._

"You can call me whatever you want," he began.

"How about 'Toast?'" Volcana blasted fire at him, and he ducked, barely in time  
to save the outfit. He responded with a blast of super-breath, taking her down and  
knocking the wind out of her.

Then he ducked again, because he knew Livewire and knew the bolt would be  
coming. "Almost gotcha!"

"Almost," he admitted, and flew through the warehouse, letting her aim and miss  
him.

"Hold still!"

"All right." He stopped dead in front of her. She grinned and got a charge ready.  
The catwalk, whose supports she had just blasted away while trying to hit Clark,  
fell on her.

Volcana was back up, ready to dance. Clark scanned the warehouse quickly,  
thinking what he really needed was to find a way to fill the warehouse with water,  
fast. Which would probably react very badly with the electronics and the  
chemicals, so scratch that.

He dodged Volcana's heat blasts, then spied what he wanted. He grabbed a  
chemical drum and flew above her, cracking the drum as he did. White powder  
rained down on her.

Volcana coughed and sputtered, tried hitting the stuff with a heat blast. "What is  
this stuff?" Clark pulled back and away, as Volcana was enveloped with the gas.  
Her flames flickered, and she fell to her knees.

"Sodium bicarbonate. Covers fires, decomposes into carbon dioxide at high  
temps. Nighty-night."

"Funny," said Livewire, kicking the last of the catwalk off herself. "But there  
ain't nothin' here to take me out, baby." She hit him full-on in the chest with an  
electric blast, and he fell. Livewire approached him, getting yet another handful  
of energy ready. "Looks like we don't need to call you anything at all, toots.  
Except maybe an ambulance." She powered up the blast. "Make that a hearse."

_   
**wham**   
_

Livewire crashed into the wall, discharging directly into Hawkman's mace.

_It slices, it dices ... _

Livewire slumped to the ground, unconscious. Clark stood up. "I didn't need the  
help, but thanks."

"I was in the neighborhood."

_I'll bet._ "Flying going better?"

"A little bit, yes," he admitted, binding Livewire in some conductive wire. Clark  
sent out a quick call to the Metropolis P.D., then tied up Volcana. Neither villain  
looked to be causing trouble any time soon.

"We should probably go before the police arrive. Fewer questions." Hawkman  
nodded. Clark retrieved the henchman he tied up earlier, and did a quick scan of  
the area. He didn't see anyone else, save the freed guards who were waiting  
outside. He dropped the henchman beside Volcana.

"Come on." The guards waved their thanks, as the first police cars pulled up.

* * *

They were well out of sight of the warehouse. Clark asked, "Want to touch down  
for a minute?"

"Yeah. Thanks." They landed atop a building several blocks from Clark's  
apartment. As soon as they were down, Hawkman began rubbing at his wings,  
frowning.

"Need help?"

"No."

Clark folded his arms. He was good at patient, but it was late. "Why are you in  
Metropolis at this time of night?"

A shrug. "I was bored. Heard you over the comm, thought you might want some  
backup."

"For those two?"

"Bored. I did mention. And I couldn't sleep. Figured a fight would do me good."

"And?" He'd always liked Hawkgirl, even the times he'd harbored thoughts of  
shaking her until her brain started working. On a daily basis, he dealt with super-  
intelligent villains, crafty captains of industry, shrewd politicians, and fellow  
heroes gifted with astounding powers of perception and cognition. Sometimes it  
was nice to spend time around a person who thought subtlety meant saying "Look  
over there!" before clubbing a bad guy over the head. Usually a bad guy.

"How do you deal with them?"

"Hm?"

"Humans. How do they _not_ drive you insane?"

He covered his smile with a cough. He'd had a feeling. "You get used to them."

"But they're so ... aggravating! And self-righteous! And they blow things  
completely out of proportion."

"And they're adorable."

"Yes. No! What?" Hawkman glared at him.

"Sorry." _Here goes another unspoken rule right out the window._ "I'm the  
last of my kind. By definition, _all_ my relationships are interspecies."

"Does it get easier?"

"No," Clark said, and Hawkman closed his eyes. "But it's worth it."

He opened his eyes again. "Even when the particular human in question is being  
unreasonable?"

Clark thought before replying. "'Unreasonable' is a matter of opinion," he said,  
finally. "You've been on Earth a while."

"Five years."

"I was raised here. I know what the species is like. They're amazingly adaptable.  
You can drop one anywhere, and he or she will figure out a way to survive, even  
thrive. But there are some things they consider too much of a change. They can't  
handle it."

"Humans change genders. I've seen it." He probably had. Hawkgirl's bar-  
hopping habits were the stuff of legend.

"Rarely. And it's usually a long process, in which they're given plenty of time to  
change their minds. What happened to us happened all at once. There's going to  
be an adjustment period."

"I've adjusted. You've adjusted. Even Batman's adjusted." _That's open for  
debate._

"Batman didn't change over only to discover his girlfriend changed, too." He was  
rewarded with a reluctant not-quite smile.

"Does Batman _have_ a girlfriend?"

"New one every week." Lois wasn't subtle either, at least not when she made a  
point of getting a preview for the society section of the _Planet_ each  
weekend. _And speaking of Lois._ "I need to get home. I've got to be at  
work in the morning. You're welcome to ... "

"I'm headed home too."

"Good night." Clark waited until he was gone to take off towards his own  
apartment. It was a long flight to Midway City from Metropolis, especially when  
Hawkman's wings weren't up to snuff, but Detroit was much closer. Clark wasn't  
worried much.

* * *

She told herself she was just tired. Yes. And her wings were sore, and not quite  
up to speed, and anyway, it wasn't like John's place was far out of her way.

She lighted on the roof. There was a lock on the door up here, but the fire escape  
was accessible with a soft jump, and then she could make certain the street was  
clear of passers-by before making her way to the front door of the apartment  
building. Considering the hour, she didn't expect to meet anyone, and she was  
not disappointed.

She didn't knock. A good sign: the spare key was where he always left it. Or  
was it where _she_ always left it? No, always _he_, in her thoughts and  
her dreams, no matter what else might seem to be, and now that she knew this in  
her soul, the concept was really quite simple.

Now came the hard part. Did she turn on a light and wake him up? Did she nap  
on the couch for a few hours until he noticed her in the morning? Or did she slip  
into his room in silence, slide into bed next to him, kiss him awake?

Silence. The apartment was dark and silent. No comforting snores from the other  
room, which meant John was either in there awake, or ...

His bed was made, tight corners without a wrinkle in the top blanket. No alerts  
had come over the comm since Diana's announcement, and nothing for hours  
before that. John was simply not home. At three a.m..

She was too tired to fly anymore tonight, but she couldn't imagine crawling into  
his bed without him, and the couch would be almost impossible with her wings.  
She found the extra blankets in his closet, made a soft space on the floor in his  
room. The blankets smelled of John's laundry soap, and the room was redolent  
with his aftershave and his deodorant and his tangy, musky, _human_ scent  
that often overrode all the rest of her senses when she was near him. Enwrapped  
within these, she slept.

* * *

The day dawned too cloudy for the sun to poke through. John wrapped his hands  
around his fifth cup of coffee, and wished for summer. Which was a laugh, since  
as soon as it got hot, he'd be praying for snow and he knew it. Just now, though,  
it might be nice to have some sunlight to warm him up after a long night's vigil.

The kid should have been home hours ago. Any respectable person would just  
now be getting out of bed to start the day.

But Flash wasn't playing respectable.

The limo pulled up outside the building about fifteen minutes after what passed  
for sunrise. A redhead staggered out of the back, waved a bit drunkenly to her  
unseen companions, and made her way to the door. She made a show of pulling  
her keys from her tiny black purse. The limo drove off after she'd let herself  
inside.

John stood up from the crouch he'd taken across the street among some  
convenient shrubbery, and slouched over to the building. He had to admit, if he'd  
been spotted in his normal body, keeping a stakeout like this, the police would  
have gotten a call. The woman he appeared to be got barely a glance. This  
neighborhood was home to an adequate population of kept girlfriends for wealthy  
and powerful men; at best John would be taken for someone's girl coming home  
in her lover's clothes, and at worst, as someone's girl's cleaning woman headed to  
work. Either illusion would do.

The apartment's main door was locked, but there was a buzzer.

_   
**bzzt**   
_

A few seconds of silence, then static and: "Hello?"

"It's," _Oh damn ... _"It's Jane. Can I come up?"

"Jane who?" The voice was tired.

"Jane ... Green. Your best friend."

"Green?" She sounded even more confused. "Oh, hey! Come on up!" The door  
buzzed, and John let himself inside quickly.

_Idiot._

It was a second floor apartment. Flash had the door open as he got to the top of  
the stairs. "Hi, Jane. Didn't recognize you on the box."

"I figured."

Flash shut the door behind him, and double-locked it. "What's up?"

"You haven't checked in for a few days. Batman wanted me to touch base with  
you and see if you needed help." He pointedly ignored her dress. It was blue,  
strapless, and didn't leave much to his imagination. He found himself more than  
a little relieved that Flash also reeked of Bar Smell: cigarettes, liquor, and sweat.

"So _that's_ how you got the address." Flash went to the kitchenette and  
started making coffee. "Some?"

"No, thanks. I've been drinking the stuff all night. And speaking of, where've  
you been? I've been casing your place since midnight. I was starting to think  
you'd gotten yourself kidnapped or something."

"Late party. Smitty's taking a liking to me, kept wanting to dance." She opened  
the 'fridge. "You hungry? I'm gonna have some breakfast." She put a skillet on  
the stove and lit the burner.

John's stomach told him all he needed to know. "Um, sure. Thanks. Who's  
Smitty?"

"One of Roberts's goons. Nice guy, lousy dancer. Great taste in music, though,  
and he bought me drinks all night."

"So you're drunk."

"Not even a little, mon ami, sad to say." Bacon sizzled in the skillet. Flash  
started cracking eggs into a bowl. John stopped counting after a dozen.

"Nice to hear you're having fun." He took a look around the apartment. It wasn't  
classy, but it was as big as John's place, and in this part of Metropolis, that meant  
bucks. The furniture looked like it was rented with the apartment, and he guessed  
it was mostly unused. He sat down in the chair nearest the kitchen. "How are you  
affording this place?"

"Batman said it would be covered. Don't ask me how. Toast?"

"No thanks. You want any help with that?"

"You'd be in my way." Flash stirred the cooking eggs and buttered her stack of  
toast and set the table, all at a blur, humming to herself. John rolled his eyes.  
"Food's ready."

He knew from experience to stay out of Flash's way during the first few minutes  
of any meal. This was no exception. A great yellow pile of eggs vanished from  
her plate as John picked at his carefully; Flash wasn't always concerned about  
eggshells. The bacon was good, though. Crispy. He reached for more, then saw  
the look on Flash's new face.

"What?"

"I realize I'm saying this after having just eaten most of the package, but are you  
sure you want more of that?"

"Yes." He took another three slices, and after a moment's thought, a few  
spoonfuls of eggs. They hadn't been that bad. "Why?"

"Well, I've got this whole metabolism thing, but you're a normal human. In  
general. Gotta watch your weight."

"You're kidding, right?"

"Dude, we run around in lycra. Okay, I do. I don't know what _your_  
uniform is made of. Shows everything."

"You trying to tell me something, kid?"

"We're _girls_. We're supposed to be on diets, like, all the time. And drink  
diet sodas."

"You're not trying to diet?"

"If I don't get at least five thousand calories a day, I get lightheaded, but that's  
me. You're not me."

"Great. I've been a woman for less than four days and my best friend is already  
telling me I'm fat."

"You're not. You're not!" she repeated as John glared. "You look fine! I mean,  
you're totally hot! I mean, wait, I didn't mean that you're like, _hot_ hot."  
John continued glaring. "I mean, not so much in the 'I'd jump you right now if I  
was still a guy' kind of hot, but in the 'You're pretty and I'm sure lots of guys  
would dig you' kind of hot. 'Cause you're not really my type but it's been a long  
time since I've been on a date so maybe I need to rethink my type, so you know,  
you could be my type, only you're not 'cause you're _you_, not that there's  
anything wrong with you." Flash finally realized that her mouth was going and  
nothing of value was coming out. "Can we go back to the part where we were  
having breakfast and I wasn't a complete idiot?"

"We'd have to go awfully far back to get to the point where you weren't an idiot."

"I said 'complete idiot.'"

"Right." There was juice. It was good juice. John drank the juice.

"Sorry?" That was the other half of Flash zen: it was easy to get mad at him, but  
hard to stay that way.

"How's it been?"

"Huh?"

"You're working undercover. How's it been? Partying all the time? Or have you  
actually done anything useful?"

"Well, I think I'm in. I've been invited over to Roberts's mansion tonight for a  
little soiree. Officially, I'm going as Smitty's date, but I think I can drop him once  
I get inside. Check out what I can."

"Good. You'll call if you need backup, right?"

"Have no fears on that one." A few expressions crossed Flash's features. John  
was pretty good at reading women's faces.

"Are you okay, man?"

"Yeah. It's just ... weird. You know?"

"I know."

"I've had to stop myself from decking guys. Their hands want to be everywhere.  
No way I'm letting Smitty kiss me, though. Way too bizarre." She shuddered, but  
he wondered if it wasn't a bit affected. "Hey, got a question for you. How's your  
wiring?"

"What wiring?"

"You know. You're hardwired to like girls. Me, too," she added quickly. "But  
are we wired the same now? I mean, dude," she lowered her voice, "are we  
lesbians?"

John looked at her for a long moment. "You may have been drinking all night,  
but I am far too sober to consider having this conversation right now."

"Come on! Who else can we talk to about this? Superman and J'onn aren't even  
human, and god only knows what the hell is up with Bats on a _normal_ day.  
I'm not asking Hawkgirl or Diana."

"Let's not discuss Hawkgirl or Diana." To be fair, Flash could discuss Diana all  
she wanted, as far as John cared. He wasn't sleeping with Diana.

"I know what you mean. They're guys now, and they're good-looking guys."

"Flash."

Flash pressed on, "I can see how girls would think they were all that, and a bag of  
chips too. But _we're_ girls now, so are we supposed to think they're hot?"

"_Flash_."

"Only we're guys, and they're guys, so thinking they're hot might mean we're  
gay, only we're not, at least I'm not and I'm pretty sure you're not either. But we  
know they're actually girls, but we're girls right now, so if we think they're hot  
does that make us lesbians, or are we just really screwed up straight guys?"

The earnest look on her face stilled the insults coming to mind, and instead John  
sighed. "How long have you been thinking about this?"

"Days. _You_ try not thinking about it when Leisure Suit Larry is asking you  
to come see his etchings, and you're trying to play hard to get but not _too_  
hard to get."

"Your guy's name is Smitty?"

"Yeah."

"If he was a woman, what would he be like?"

"Complete bitch."

"Would you date her?"

"If she was pretty." John glowered again. "Okay, probably not. At least, not for  
very long."

"But if you had to date her for a mission, you would." She nodded. "Even if you  
thought she was ugly?"

"If I had to, I guess."

"Then it doesn't matter. Focus on the job. You're there to find out as much info  
as you can on Intergang, so we can take them down hard and fast. Go as far as  
you need to, but only as far as you would if it was the other way around. And if  
you get in too deep, give me a shout."

"You'd chaperone my date?"

"No, but I'd beat someone up for you if you needed me to."

"That may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

* * *

As John was about to leave Flash's place, Diana sent a message over the comm:

"Someone has just hijacked a tanker full of nuclear waste on its way to permanent  
underground storage in Nevada."

"You're sure?" said Superman over the line.

"I can be there ... " Flash started, but John put up his hand.

"I'll take it. Give me a location." To Flash he added, "Get some sleep. You've  
got a party tonight, remember? Besides, you need a shower." Flash stuck out her  
tongue, but didn't object. She was drinking the last of the coffee as John left.

He walked a few blocks from the apartment before ducking into an alley and  
ringing up a uniform; no use risking Flash's alias.

It only took him a few minutes to get to the last seen site of the tanker, and a few  
minutes more to locate its present position. The hijacker didn't stand a chance.  
As the man hung there in ring-generated pincers, John found out he was just a guy  
who'd stopped taking his meds and who consequently believed the government  
was using the tanker to ship secret evidence of alien landings to Area 51.

On his way back home, he helped a couple trapped in their car after a crash, and  
scooped a kid out of the way of a bus. It was almost noon by the time he finally  
got to his apartment, by which point he was too tired to do anything but fall into  
bed.

Two hours later, a horn blared outside his window and woke him. He finally  
noticed the blankets on the floor on the far side of his bed. They'd been refolded,  
but not neatly. He got out of bed, went to the kitchen, found a coffee mug washed  
and draining in the rack by the sink.

Only two people knew where he kept the spare key. He'd had breakfast with one  
of them this morning.

He went back to his bed to get some more sleep, but it didn't come for hours.

* * *

With J'onn gone, the Watchtower echoed eerily. By no means was this Diana's  
first solo watch. She was familiar with every beep and click that meant operations  
were running smoothly. They made a pleasant background noise, not so much a  
heartbeat as the tinkle of a running steam and the twitter of small birds.

It amazed her that such a sterile creation of Man's world could remind her so  
strongly of home.

She knew Themyscira's location, but had never seen it as the satellite orbited.  
She looked, often, wondering what Mother was doing, if she was looking up at  
that time to see the false star drift by.

Mother would never understand this.

The face she could see reflected back in the window, it would repulse her mother,  
would be banned from the island as certainly as Diana herself was. These hands,  
these shoulders, this entire body, all were anathema to other Amazons. Was she  
even an Amazon now? Did she dare call the rest sisters, when they would gladly  
strike her down before she drew breath?

She closed her eyes, shut away the Earth and the reflection that wasn't hers.

Duty at the Watchtower always lead to feelings of isolation; this was nothing new,  
except in the fashion that everything was new, and different, and wrong. Her  
arms reached out grotesquely far, her hips were obscenely narrow, and parts of her  
moved! Without her even trying! Despite her carefully-constructed reputation,  
Diana had not been an innocent maiden, even before her first foray into Man's  
world. After her arrival, she read voraciously, and she watched films and  
television, and she knew what made men what they were, and she found it  
amusing and sad that men (and women!) tried to define women by what they did  
not possess. As if a woman was merely a defective man, missing this maddening  
and incomprehensible appendage, and not a complex form of her own, with her  
own wonderful parts that men in their ignorance did not mourn the absence of.

She rested her head against the plexiglass. She'd performed a Web search on the  
new words she needed now, and had come up with results that were confusing and  
a little disturbing, not unlike the rest of this world. She had so many questions!  
Despite the fact that she was currently on good terms with Hawkgirl — not always  
a given — the other woman had her own problems, and Diana couldn't imagine  
discussing these things with one of the men, and that left her no one at all to ask.

No one to talk to.

No one at all here, save a misplaced princess in the Tower who dared not come  
out to play.

Diana had noted many differences between men and women in her time among  
the others. One such difference was that men did not cry, or hid it when they did.

She wondered if being this far above the planet counted as a sufficient hiding  
place.

* * *

Another late night, another story. Clark checked the story he was working on one  
more time and then emailed it to the proofers. Someone on the night shift would  
do a read-through, and the story would be ready for the morning edition.

He yawned. Ten p.m., and he needed to spend tonight working on the "contact  
the Fifth Dimension" problem. He'd been thinking about it during every spare  
minute. Mostly. Sometimes. He was trying. Honestly.

The fact was, Clark wasn't sure where to begin. The Fifth Dimension was another  
dimension for a reason, and he couldn't just send an email, or fire up a  
teleportation beam, to reach it. And in the meantime, he had deadlines to meet,  
and a new superhero persona to use around the city.

And also ...

"Duluth, you still here?"

"Just finishing up. I thought you left already."

"I did. Had dinner with a source. Now I have to write the story." Same old Lois.  
She went to her desk and clicked on her computer. "You know, Perry already  
went home. You can't score points with him if he doesn't see you here working."

"I'm not trying to score points."

"Right." Lois tapped her fingers against her lips, then started typing.

Clark thought about leaving, and then with a little sigh, turned his own monitor  
back on and started surfing. Maybe the Web could provide some clues on how to  
reach Mxyzptlk. _Just close enough to wrap my hands around his little  
neck._

"Go home, Duluth."

"I've got some things to research."

"For example?"

He thought fast. "I'm trying to dig up more info on that new superhero in town."

"You mean Apollo?" _Guess that name stuck after all._ Lois smiled, and  
for all she had complained after her rescue, he saw the wistfulness on her face.

"No," he said, a little irritated. "The new heroine."

"Oh," said Lois, and she scrutinized him for a long moment. "I think Perry said  
we're calling her Ultragirl until she says otherwise."

"Might as well look her up here instead of going home to dial-up."

"That reminds me. Where are you staying?" She continued typing.

"53rd Street," he said without thinking.

"Which end?"

Clark just kept himself from telling her the truth. "Um, East End. It's a sublet."

"Mm." Lois had stopped listening, was focused on her muse's voice instead.  
Clark knew the look. He clicked on a promising website, but found it to be just  
another Goth site. Dead end again.

Around midnight, Lois stretched in her chair and turned off her monitor. "That's  
enough for now. I'm going home. You should, too. Did you drive?"

"Subway." No recognizable car in the lot, no worrying about his license.

Lois nodded at the clock. "Too late for that tonight." _Uh oh._ Clark  
generally didn't worry about the operating hours of the Metropolis Transit  
System. He drove, or walked, or when the need arose, flew. Lois mistook the  
look on his face. "Come on, I'll drive you home. You're not too far out of my  
way."

"No, that's all right. Really. Nice night for a walk."

"It's past midnight, it's winter, and you live in the East End. Don't be stupid."

"It'll be okay. I swear." He didn't have a sublet in the East End to speak of, and  
if Lois tried to drop him off at one, she'd have a lot of questions he couldn't  
answer when the key didn't fit. He certainly didn't dare have her take him back to  
his own apartment. "Actually, I'm not done with my research yet." He pretended  
to go back to his computer.

"Yes you are. Come on. Your apartment can't be that bad."

"You have no idea." _Drat._ "Tell you what, it _is_ getting late. I'll get  
a cab. That way you don't get home even later."

"You sure?"

"Positive." Clark turned off the monitor again. "I'll walk you to your car,  
though."

"This is my city, Clara. I can take care of myself. You're the one I'm worried  
about."

"Oh, I can take care of myself, too. You don't have to worry." He got his coat; he  
still couldn't bring himself to buy a purse, and no one had commented.

Lois rolled her eyes, but allowed Clark to accompany her to the parking lot.  
Lois's car was the only one still there. Lois had her keys out, and Clark watched  
her take in their surroundings as they walked. He should probably make an effort  
to do that, he mused, but in his new form he could punch any wanna-be assailant  
through a concrete barrier just as easily as he could before.

"Last chance, Duluth. It's no trouble. I don't like the idea of leaving you alone  
here. Perry'd chew my head off if something happened to you." The worry in her  
tone was genuine. Clark smiled.

"I promise, Lois, absolutely nothing's ... " There was a gun in his face. Two men  
had appeared from the shadows in the parking lot, and the other had his piece  
pointed at Lois. Footsteps behind him let him know they had two more friends.  
No escape that way.

The problem with punching someone through a concrete barrier was that it lead to  
embarrassing questions.

"Miss Lane." It was one of the men behind them. Clark turned, very slowly. He  
didn't recognize the unhandsome face, but he knew the raspy voice from  
somewhere. He committed the man's face, and those of his companions, to  
memory in case of a police line-up later.

"Rialto," said Lois. "Didn't think you came up from the sewers until it was  
warmer outside." Ah. "Roach" Rialto was one of the strong-arms employed by  
Boss Roussimoff. Clark had gotten him on the phone once, but the line had gone  
dead before the call was traced.

"It's an early thaw," he sneered. "Who's your poor friend?"

"No one you need to worry about." Lois took a small step in front of Clark,  
despite the gun pointed right at her temple. "What brings you to my parking lot?"  
She sounded a lot calmer than she should have been. Clark took the opportunity  
to size up their assailants. He could take out both gunmen with one well-timed  
blow. But Lois might get hurt, and either way, she'd find out.

"Mr. Roussimoff doesn't like you poking around in his business. You know that."

"What makes you think I'm — "

"You had dinner with Freddie Daye. Mr. Roussimoff wants to know what you  
talked about."

"His golf game, a wedding I went to last week. Nothing much."

Rialto nodded. The gunman guarding Clark readied his weapon. "If one more lie  
comes out of your ugly little mouth, the tall broad is going to pay for it."

Lois swallowed. "What do you want?"

"Since you forgot Mr. Roussimoff's warning last time, I'm here to give you a  
better reminder." The knife opened with a **_snick_**. "Think of it as a favor.  
Every time you look in the mirror, you'll remember that Mr. Roussimoff was nice  
enough to leave you alive, and you'll repay his generosity by keeping what's left  
of your nose out of his affairs."

The fourth man, the one beside Rialto, grabbed Lois by the wrists. Or tried to.  
Lois slipped between him and her gunman, and kicked the latter into him, causing  
both to stumble. Clark didn't wait to see what happened. He grabbed the gun at  
his temple out of the owner's grip and punched him with his other hand, lightly  
enough not to cause permanent damage.

Rialto grabbed him from behind and slashed his knife across Clark's throat.

The blade broke in his hand, and he had just enough time to be confused before  
Clark punched him, too. Rialto crumpled to the ground.

Lois had pulled back from her assailants, who'd recovered from their disarray and  
were now approaching her from two sides. She looked back and forth between  
them, and spotted Clark.

"Clara! Call the cops!" No doubt on the cellphone he didn't have.

Lois let the guy who had tried to grab her come closer — he'd pulled out a gun of  
his own — and kicked out at him. The kick landed solidly at his wrist, but didn't  
dislodge his weapon.

The other man aimed his own gun at her, and Clark saw him squeeze the trigger,  
and then there was no time at all to do anything except speed between them and  
let the bullet ricochet off his own chest and deck the man before he caught on.  
The noise and motion took the other man's attention from Lois, and she grabbed  
his wrist, and tossed him over her shoulder and onto the ground, where one kick  
to his head sent him to dreamland with his pals.

"I told you to call the cops," Lois said, once she was sure the men weren't getting  
up again.

"I don't own a cell. Sorry."

"Don't be. You did pretty well for a new kid in town." Lois smiled at Clark, then  
gave him that same intent look as before. "You're hurt."

"No, I'm fine." But she was already placing her hands on Clark's coat, where the  
bullet had gone.

"Clara, we need to get you to the ER." Now she was panicking, just a little,  
opening Clark's coat despite his attempts to stop her without hurting her.

"Lois, it's okay. I'm all right. It didn't ... "

"That bullet hole in your blouse says you're a liar." Lois looked up at him  
thoughtfully. Then she pulled out her own phone and called the police. She  
didn't give her name for the tip. "Come on. Now."

"We're not going to give a statement to the police?"

"No."

Clark let her lead him into her car. Without another look to the four men on the  
ground, Lois pulled out of the parking lot. Less than a block away, they passed a  
police car with its light on racing towards the lot.

"I think I could use some shut-eye," he said after another block. "Maybe I could  
take you up on that offer to drive me home?" He tried to sound tired and he  
didn't have to act much.

"Who are you?" She kept her eyes on the street, slowed at a stop sign without  
actually stopping, went on.

"Um, Clara. We met a few days ago. Did one of those guys hit you in the head?"

"No, but one of them shot you, and you're not bleeding and you're not wearing  
Kevlar and you're not from Minnesota. And I _think_ they were too  
confused to notice, but I'm not. And you arrived in town the same day as two  
new superheroes started making waves."

"Lois."

"I'm not going to tell anyone." She stopped at a red light, let the car idle. "If you  
know Batman, you can ask him. I can keep secrets." And as far as he knew, she  
did. Bruce Wayne's secret night life would be the scoop of the century, and Lois  
had very quietly sat on it for years.

He watched the stoplight with her, waited a full minute until it turned green and  
the car rolled forward again. "We've met."

She let out a breath. "You were laughing at me."

"When?"

"When I was bitching about the guys in tights around here. You must have  
thought I was the dumbest woman alive."

"I'd never think that, Lois."

She snorted, a little. "What do I call you?"

"'Clara' is fine."

"It's not your real name. You forget to answer to it sometimes, you know. I've  
been wondering why." He made a mental note to work on that. "Jesus, Clara.  
Why are you here?" Clark winced internally; Ma and Pa had very firm notions  
about blasphemy, and that example had imprinted strongly on him.

"You made me get in the car."

"In Metropolis, dummy."

"Oh." He thought fast. "I'm undercover. Some friends and I are trying to break  
into Intergang and take them down." This was true. It seemed to be working; the  
one glimpse he'd managed of Boss Roberts in the past few days had included a  
new girl in his entourage who bore a close resemblance to Flash.

"You and Apollo."

"And some others, yes."

"Is he your ... " She let the question dangle. Clark wasn't sure if he was being  
interviewed or queried about Diana's dating status.

"Friend," he replied steadfastly. "We're just friends." Lois gave him that look  
again, as he mused privately. He did like Diana, certainly, and he wasn't stupid  
enough to deny he was attracted to her, but that was where it both began and  
ended. His current romantic interests were complicated enough, and the biggest  
complication of all was driving him vaguely toward the East End.

"Where are we going?"

"Your apartment."

"Is now a good time to tell you I lied about the apartment?"

Lois sighed. "Fine. Then my apartment. I'm tired and I want a shower and I  
want to think. You can sleep on my couch. It's already one; we have to be back  
at work in a few hours anyway. I'll lend you another blouse."

He needed to go. He could fly back to his own apartment, get a nap, get new  
clothes, come in to work. Face Lois all day. He really should not have been  
staying in the car, allowing them to get closer to her home.

_I should go,_ he thought, but didn't manage to say out loud.


	4. The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop** (4/6)  
> A Justice League: TAS story  
> by Merlin Missy and Constance Eilonwy  
> Copyright 2004  
> PG-13

**The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop** (4/6)  
A Justice League: TAS story  
by Merlin Missy and Constance Eilonwy  
Copyright 2004  
PG-13

* * *

Thursday

* * *

It wasn't Clark's first time in Lois's apartment. As her guest, she let him have the  
shower first. He didn't bother objecting, washed his short hair quickly under  
delightfully hot water. As he was rinsing out the last of Lois' borrowed shampoo  
— now he knew why her hair always smelled so good — Lois came into the  
bathroom. Clark yelped in surprise as the door opened, was glad of the frosted  
shower glass.

"Hey!"

"Sorry, just leaving you a towel and something to wear." Lois closed the door  
behind her. Clark's heart hammered in his chest. Lois hadn't seemed to have  
noticed anything wrong. And why would she? Clara was just one of the girls  
tonight.

He shut off the shower, mindful of not running the water heater dry, toweled off,  
and slipped into the fluffy blue robe Lois had hung on the peg behind the door.

"Coffee?" Lois asked, as he stepped out. "It's decaf. I swear." She was already  
in her own robe.

"Sure." He took a cup as Lois brushed past him for her own shower. She was just  
behind the closed door. He could hear her taking off her robe, running the water.  
He didn't even need to make an excuse to go inside the room; x-ray vision was  
practically designed for ...

He turned his back from the door, took a long drink of his coffee. French vanilla.  
Girl coffee. Also Flash coffee, but Flash would drink anything with sugar. And  
eat anything. _Hm. Eat._

Clark found the cookies without much rummaging. He hadn't eaten in about  
seven hours, and suddenly Famous Amos sounded like his best friend. He  
munched a handful of the tiny cookies as he looked around the living room. Not  
much had changed since he'd been there last: a new picture of Lucy, some  
rearrangement of flowers and pots.

"Found the cookies, huh?" Lois was back in her robe, a towel around her hair.

"Sorry," he smiled around the last few crumbs.

"Not a problem. I was thinking, it's really really late."

"I know. We should get to sleep."

"Actually, I thought maybe we could blow off sleep, and murder some cookies n'  
cream instead." She saw the confusion on his face. "Come on, how often will I  
get the chance to hang out with a superhero in my bathrobe?"

"As often as you'd like," he blurted. "I mean, I can't imagine anyone not wanting  
to spend time with you." She stared. "So, ice cream?"

"Ice cream."

The table was cozy, just right for a half-gallon of Breyers, and two spoons, and  
Lois. She put on more coffee, high test this time, and they drank cup after cup in  
between spoonfuls, and Clark couldn't imagine having a better time.

"So, what's the real story about The Life of Ultragirl? I know Batman's got his  
dating issues, but do you ever get to just go out and have fun?"

"Sometimes. But it's not easy even thinking about having a relationship with  
someone. If one of my enemies found out, they'd use that against me. I wouldn't  
want to put someone else in that kind of danger."

"Kind of unfair, though. What if he doesn't mind the danger?"

"He?" He was confused for half a sec. _Oh, right._ "Sorry. It's late. Even  
if _he_ didn't mind, I would. I'd always be afraid that he'd get hurt because  
of me." Lois watched him over her coffee, and then he changed the subject.  
"And about that name. Can we go with 'Ultrawoman,' please? I've got it on  
good authority that Hawkgirl's still mad at you for that."

Lois laughed. "I'll tell Perry. But that means you've got to let me have an  
exclusive sometime soon."

"Deal."

She set down her coffee, took another spoonful of ice cream. "Um, the next time  
it comes up, could you tell Hawkgirl I'm sorry? I swear it was a typesetting thing.  
Smaller word, bigger font."

Clark choked on his own bite of ice cream. "You called her 'girl' instead of  
'woman' because of the font size for the headline?" Lois nodded. _I am never  
ever ever telling her that._

Around three, Lois told him stories about her girlhood, some of which he'd heard  
before, and some he hadn't. "Lois and Lucy and the Treehouse" was new and  
wonderful. At four, he told her some (modified) Smallville tales that had her  
clutching her stomach. The ice cream was long gone, but the coffee was hot and  
sweet. They'd moved to the couch some time since, and Lois had put on a cd of  
old Broadway standards. She sang a few snatches now and then, and Clark  
listened raptly when she did.

He'd been happier. He knew it. He was just having trouble remembering  
precisely when that was.

* * *

The nice thing about arriving together at work was that no one commented. Had  
Clark been his normal self, wearing an obviously rumpled outfit and following  
Lois through the door, the office gossips would have called it Christmas. Instead,  
they walked in together still chatting, and got not so much as a glance. Clark  
missed his old body, but the advantage list to this one just kept growing. Not even  
Perry's bellow as soon as they reached their desks could faze him.

"Lane, MacKenzie, in my office!" Lois rolled her eyes, but led the way.

Perry had the news on. "Nice that the two of you could join us this morning." He  
indicated the screen. "There's a bank robbery, with hostages, in progress down on  
3rd. The police are on the scene. The tv news is on the scene. Care to explain  
why my star reporter isn't there yet?"

"Just getting my notepad," said Lois. "C'mon, Duluth."

"Negative on the rookie. I've got an article I want MacKenzie to cover for page  
six. There's a scandal brewing with the Mayor I'd like us to have the skinny on  
before it breaks."

Lois paused, glanced at Clark. "Perry, I think the robbery would be a perfect  
opportunity for Clara to finally get some real news coverage under her belt. I can  
make the calls for the Mayor article."

Perry looked at her funny. "You sure? It's just a background piece."

"I mean it." She waved her hands at Clark. "Shoo!" In her eyes, Clark read an  
additional "_Go fix this._"

"Thanks, Lois," Clark said. "I'll do my best."

* * *

"Central City, traffic accident. There's been a chemical spill." Diana had been  
sending out alerts all day. John wasn't great at reading him, especially as a man,  
but even he could tell Diana, or Apollo or whoever, was chafing at the bit to be  
allowed to come down and help. And couldn't.

"I'm on it," said a voice over the comm. And since it was male, that eliminated  
everyone but ...

"I am already in Central City," J'onn replied. "I will be there in moments."

"Gotcha," came the reply. John didn't respond. He had been about to, could have  
grabbed it on his way back from Taiwan, but there was no need. He headed  
home.

And then diverted his path just a bit. Ultrawoman was finishing up taking care of  
some blizzard damage in Norway, nabbing Weather Wizard in the process, but  
said she didn't need any help. Diana was on the Watchtower, Flash was deep  
undercover, Batman was in Gotham. The tanker spill was the last thing to come  
over the comm in a while, and J'onn had it. The previous alert had been a  
daylight robbery by Tsukuri in a museum in San Diego. But if the person who'd  
taken that one was ready to volunteer for more, which was no longer available due  
to J'onn, that same person would most likely be heading home right now.

He caught up to her — him — over Iowa.

"Hey."

"Go away."

"You don't usually stay mad this long."

"Hah. I'm still mad at a kid I knew when I was six. And I'm not speaking to  
you."

"No, you're just crashing at my apartment when I'm not home." He said nothing.  
"I didn't mind. Really. You could've left a note, though. Had a Goldilocks  
moment."

"I slept on the floor."

"You didn't have to."

They flew in silence for a little while. Shayera's normal flight velocity was like a  
canter, easy on the muscles. John found it a nice change from his normal  
breakneck speed.

"You're flying much better. Guess you got used to that new center of gravity  
pretty fast."

"Stop it."

"What?"

"Stop playing nice. Stop playing like you're not still freaking out, like looking at  
me doesn't repulse you. I deserve better than that from you."

"I know."

Shayera stopped, hovered in the air, flapping his wings to keep altitude. "What do  
you want?"

"To see you. To talk to you. I haven't been around you in days. Kind of miss  
having you nearby." It was hard, saying these things to _him_. He tried to  
lighten things up. "Arguing with Flash just isn't the same."

"But Flash is a woman. You should get along with her just fine. You like  
women, right?"

"I like _you_."

"Well, that's great," Shayera said, and there was more than a little anger in his  
voice. "But you see, the problem I've got? Is that I don't like you. You drive me  
completely insane, and you have since the day we met, and this recent panic attack  
of yours has not endeared you to me any more."

"'Panic attack?' My body was _changed_ to something completely  
different."

"So was everyone else's! Diana's got a penis. Don't tell me _that's_ not  
screwing with Miss I Am Woman!"

"I know that!" Momentarily he wondered how the discussion had managed to get  
on the topic of Diana's ... He shook his head. "Am I allowed to get to the part  
where I say I'm sorry?"

"Depends. What are you sorry for?"

Their relationship had been brief thus far: not two weeks had passed since Joker's  
bomb-planting spree in Vegas. Recent events aside, John had spent a  
considerable amount of time navigating the waters wherein Shayera was  
_not_ a normal girlfriend. Nevertheless, in some ways ...

He replayed their earlier conversation in his head. _Oh._

"I'm sorry for thinking you and Diana got the better deal, and that I and the other  
men got the fuzzy end of the lollipop. I know we're all panicking in our own  
ways, and that everyone has got plenty to panic over, you included. And if you  
and I are going to be together, then not only do you get to listen to my whining,  
but I also get to listen to yours, and help you relearn to fly if you need me to."

"I did that on my own."

"I know. I should have been there."

Shayera dropped several feet, caught a draft, continued flying. He followed.

"Are you going to start talking to me again, or are you going to stay mad for  
twenty years?"

"I haven't decided yet."

"The reason I'm asking is that we're getting near your place. Mine's farther, but  
it's bigger. We could get some food, rent a movie, maybe talk. Or we could get  
some food, rent a movie, and you could scowl at me all night."

"Completely insane. I told you that, right?"

He zipped around, coming up from underneath, extended the ring's energy around  
them both so they wouldn't fall, and kissed him, hard.

He kept his eyes closed behind his mask, knowing that opening them would mess  
with his mind too much. Instead, he tasted Shayera's mouth, not ready to explore  
inside, but reveling in the tremble of lips, the swipe of tongue and quick click of  
teeth, the gasping of sudden breathless wonder. He had missed this so much.

The kiss broke, reluctantly. He opened his eyes to see Shayera's still shut tight  
behind his own mask.

"I love you," Shayera said in that deep _wrong_ voice, and he couldn't respond —  
the words never did come right even when John was himself — and so he kissed  
his jaw instead, rasping against the peach fuzz just beginning to poke through,  
moved to kiss the sensitive flesh at the pulse point at his throat. Shayera made a  
soft pleased noise, and then John couldn't imagine that voice ever being wrong,  
ever being anything but exactly what he needed to hear.

He wanted to laugh, wanted to shout, wanted to call Flash and explain that in fact,  
it wasn't about gay and straight or human and alien or anything else; it was about  
holding the person you loved in your arms and never wanting to let go. The rest  
was window dressing, was smoke and shadow, meant nothing.

However, they were several hundred feet in the air, and his concentration on their  
bubble was going to wane soon.

"So, my place?"

"Fine. Your place. Pizza and Blockbuster. You're buying."

No one ever said dating would be easy. But sometimes, John mused, you caught a  
break.

* * *

"Did I miss anything?"

Lois jumped, just a little. Clara had come out of nowhere and startled her in the  
otherwise empty office.

"Hey. Nope." She dropped her voice. "How was Norway?"

"Cold." Clara flopped down in Smallville's chair with a sigh. It reminded Lois  
that she needed to drop Kent an email and find out how things were in Singapore.  
Maybe she could talk Clara into dropping in on him to make sure he wasn't just  
taking another paid vacation on the _Planet's_ dime.

"Tell me you got a story out of it."

"Two. There was an apartment fire on the south side on my way back." She  
smiled to herself, and Lois had to smile back. Dealing with Bruce was one thing;  
he had more issues than the _National Geographic_. Clara was just a nice,  
normal woman who also happened to possess superpowers. Nothing wrong with  
that.

A small place in the back of her mind tickled that maybe, someone with these  
kinds of powers should have been seen around before now, but then, Wonder  
Woman hadn't shown up until she was an adult, either.

To be honest, Clara reminded Lois of Wonder Woman in a lot of ways. Less  
stuck up, though.

"What did you tell Perry?"

"That you were downtown pulling records for me."

"That's a good cover story."

"Finish typing those up. I'll do a quick proof for you, we'll send them off, and  
you can tell me all about it over dinner."

Clara beamed back, and spun to the computer. Since the office was once again  
empty but for the two of them, Clara let herself type at full speed, her fingers  
blurring. The typical click-clack of the keyboard became a high-speed purr. Lois  
had finished her story on the Mayor's nocturnal activities, but Perry had told her  
to hold it for a day. She checked it once more and trimmed some text for clarity,  
then she saved the story for the evening.

"Done."

Lois raised an eyebrow as she silently accepted the diskette from Clara. Both  
articles had flawless spelling and punctuation, and Clara had a good voice in  
telling what had happened. Lois did feel obligated to tighten up three verbs just  
because she could. Clara nodded at the changes, took the disk, and mailed the  
stories off to the proofers.

Lois shut down her system. "So, where do you want to go?"

"Anywhere's fine," Clara replied. Her stomach gurgled. Lois was too mature to  
laugh. Really she was.

"Maybe we should go for quantity over quality. I know this great little steakhouse  
you'd love." She watched Clara's face carefully. "Clark and I go there all the  
time." The twitch was small but clear. _Mmm hmm._

"That sounds great."

* * *

"I don't like it."

_Here it comes._ "Why not?"

"It makes me look fat." Brynne turned, surveying herself in the full-length mirror.

"No, it doesn't." Barbara began rummaging through the sewing kit, a lopsided  
smile on her face.

Brynne reached up with both hands, which were covered in thick heat and cold  
resistant gloves, and adjusted the cowl. It was tighter than she was used to,  
completely concealing her face.

"Really?" she flexed a bicep, turning her head this way and that.

Barbara laughed, then quickly stifled it and began putting away the stray strips of  
Kevlar that littered the floor of the alcove. "Really," she said firmly. "Now let's go  
show the boys."

* * *

The first time Alfred had ever seen Master Bruce in the Batman costume, he'd been  
shocked. Even though he knew logically that this was still the young man whose  
diapers he used to change, the transformative effect of the cape and cowl was  
unnerving, to say the least. It wasn't merely the feeling that a complete stranger  
suddenly stood before him; it was the sense that the boy he'd done his best to  
guide to adulthood had transformed into something not quite human.

This time, the shock wasn't quite as strong, but the new, female version of the  
costume had the same unnerving effect. More so in some ways.

"My word," Alfred said. "Master Bruce ... I mean ... Is that you?"

Master Richard, who had been leaning at ease against the computer console,  
straightened up. "Okay, and I thought your other outfit was scary. You look like  
something out of a Tim Burton movie."

Alfred had no earthly idea who Tim Burton was, but inferred his creations had a  
certain unholy look to them.

"Hey, you know what?" Alfred overheard Master Timothy mutter to Master  
Richard. "Brynne's kind of ... hot."

"Do. Not. Go. There." Giving Master Timothy a Glare of Death, Master  
Richard elbowed the boy in the ribs with more force than was his wont.

Pretending he had heard absolutely nothing, Alfred stared straight ahead.

"Presenting ... Uh. Well, we can't call her Batgirl," Miss Barbara simpered  
charmingly. "That name's taken."

"Have you thought of a name sir ... mistress ..." Alfred longed for an aspirin and a  
lie-down. "Master Richard is correct. Though quite svelte, this new outfit, in a  
way, is more terrifying than the original one."

"It's the full face covering," Master Bruce said, his voice only slightly muffled  
through the thin mesh covering the mouth and nose area. No matter how hard he  
tried, Alfred could not think of him as Miss Brynne. "What you can't see is more  
terrifying than what you can. As for names ... Actually, I hadn't thought about it."

"Batwoman!" Master Timothy said, and flinched when everyone but Alfred turned  
to him and shouted, "NO!"

Alfred spoke, "If I may so bold as to venture, given your detective skills and  
knowledge, a name that suggests an all-knowing entity. To add to your air of  
mystery. Oracle."

"Oracle?" Master Timothy wrinkled his nose.

"It's hardly a name to strike fear in the hearts of hardened criminals," Master  
Richard pointed out.

"The Oracle at Delphi," Alfred raised a finger — what did they teach children in  
schools nowadays? — "is a universally known figure and has an effect on the  
superstitious. And as Master Bruce — I mean Miss Brynne — often says,  
'criminals ... '"

"'Are a superstitious and cowardly lot,'" Miss Barbara, Master Timothy and  
Master Richard chorused.

Alfred hid a smile behind a cough.

Master Bruce cleared his throat — her throat; the sound that came out was  
decidedly too feminine to be from a he. "Are you saying I repeat myself?"

"Uh, no, of course not."

"Nope. Not at all, Bruce. I mean Brynne."

"Uh-uh."

"Oracle." Master Bruce considered a moment, head tilted to one side. "I like it."

"So," Master Richard said with his usual eagerness, rolling his shoulders as a  
warm-up exercise. "When do we hit the streets?"

"Are you sure you're ready?" Miss Barbara put her hand on Master Bruce's shoulder.

Master Bruce nodded. "I'm ready."

"Great!" said Master Richard. "It's been a while since I've had a chance to work  
with all of you. Let me go get ... "

"No," said Master Bruce.

At that single syllable, Alfred felt a sense of impending doom; the first flash of  
lightning before a storm. He sighed; it had always been thus.

"What?"

"You have a city of your own that needs you."

"But ..."

"Go back to Bludhaven, Dick."

Eagerness and energy transmuted in a matter of seconds to frustration. It was still  
heartbreaking to watch after all these years. Master Richard strode forward, fists  
clenched. "So three days of training and presto, you're one hundred percent what  
you were?"

Miss Brynne — no, Master Bruce always no matter what — pulled back the cowl,  
revealing her short black hair stuck up in messy cowlicks. Alfred made a mental  
note to make an appointment with a hairdresser for Mr. Wayne's out of town  
cousin. The cowl bunched at the back of her neck in soft folds like the hood of a  
jacket. "Dick," she began, but he cut her off.

"In case you hadn't noticed, you're different now Bru — Brynne. Your center of  
gravity has changed, your strength and endurance will be less."

"A second ago you were cheering her on," Miss Barbara said sharply. "Now  
suddenly she's a helpless female again?"

"Not helpless." Master Richard turned to her. "I agree it's time she went out on  
the street. But with backup."

"And what are we?" Master Timothy frowned. "Chopped liver?"

_Bravo_, thought Alfred.

"No, that's not what I ... It's just that one more team member couldn't hurt. Just to  
be safe."

"It's not necessary," Master Bruce said softly.

From the expression on her face, Alfred could see she felt the situation slipping  
from her control. A gesture meant merely to make things easier for Master  
Richard had caused the group to go off like a string of firecrackers.

"Yes it is. Training in controlled conditions is one thing. But out on the street,  
things are a lot more unpredictable."

"Which is why me and Tim will be there to look after her," Miss Barbara countered.

"I don't need looking after," Master Bruce said in a voice like frost on a window.

Unable to stand by and watch any longer, Alfred walked away sadly and went to  
work at a table in the shadows near the stairs. Their voices faded somewhat, but  
he could unfortunately still hear them.

Master Richard snorted. "Of course."

"What's that supposed to mean?" The frost on the window was taking on a white-  
hot aspect.

"Before I went to Bludhaven, I didn't see it this way. But now I've worked alone  
for a while. The way you used to for years. And trust me when I tell you:  
working with partners is better than working alone."

"In certain circumstances, yes," Master Bruce said.

A guttural sigh, almost a bitter laugh, seemed to deflate the anger from him. "You  
win. I'm going back to Bludhaven. Good luck you two," he said bitingly, waving  
at the others as he strode across the cave towards the stone steps and Alfred's table.

Miss Barbara and Master Timothy wisely turned their attention to the computers.  
So perhaps only Alfred noticed when Mistress Brynne opened her mouth and  
lifted a hand as if to call Master Richard back. Then the hand dropped, the mouth  
closed. She turned brusquely to the computer instead. "All right. Let's see what's  
going down tonight."

* * *

"Leaving so soon?" Alfred said drily as Dick passed the table.

"Guess so."

Alfred finished rolling one bandage and started on another. "If it's any  
consolation, I believe she has your best interests at heart."

"Oh, really." He paused, watching Alfred work. Another roll neatly placed beside  
the first, start on a third. There was a neat tray of gleaming, clean surgical tools,  
next to boxes of gauze. "Who does he — she — _he_ think she is, anyway?"  
Dick burst out, in the pleading, nearly whining tones of a frustrated child.

"Indeed," Alfred said, the voice still calm and dry. "He'd have been a goner a long  
time ago without us."

He finished with the bandages and went to organizing the gauze in order of size.

"What I don't get is why he didn't get the League to retrain him. Why would he  
come to us if he doesn't think he needs us?"

Alfred tapped the square packages of gauze on the table to even up the edges.  
"What Master Bruce thinks he needs and what he does need are often two  
different things, lad."

Dick paused, trying to wrap his brain around that. "What are you doing?"

Alfred finished with the gauze. "Being the back-up."

* * *

Traffic snarled and snaked through downtown, but they did eventually arrive at  
the restaurant. The waitress waved Lois in, and sat them at a nice table near the  
back. Drinks and food were ordered, and then they were left alone.

"So, Norway?"

Clara shrugged. "Like I said, cold. Weather Wizard was trying to reshape the  
Briksdal glacier. I have no idea why, and I wasn't going to wait around to find  
out. The Norwegian authorities can ask all the questions they want." She looked  
up as the waitress brought them their drinks and a basket of pretzels, and thanked  
the other woman kindly.

Lois nibbled on some of the pretzels, let Clara take the lion's share. Lois had  
done a profile on the Flash a year ago, and Dr. Hamilton had estimated for her that  
he would need to eat almost constantly to keep up with his metabolic level. She  
was willing to bet Ultrawoman wasn't going to be much different. To be fair, one  
didn't need to be a superhero to have a healthy appetite; the only reason she knew  
about this place was that Smallville had dragged her here a couple of times to  
watch him down a pound of steak, a baked potato, corn on the cob, and all the  
cole slaw he could stomach. Clark got his build from life on the farm, though,  
toting hay bales and bench-pressing cows or whatever it was teenagers did for fun  
in small town America.

Poor Clark. A real live superhero working in their office, and he was off in  
southeast Asia.

Over their food, Clara told her more about the apartment fire. She was far more  
animated in relating that story. Four kids had been trapped in a bedroom, and she  
described the heat and flames so vividly that Lois found herself gasping in fear,  
even though she had read Clara's (far less detailed) story and knew everything had  
turned out fine.

"The ceiling was starting to give way, and the walls to either side of us had  
caught. The smoke was so thick I couldn't see, the kids were coughing and  
choking. The only thing I could do was set them down, and they cried, trying to  
hold onto me.. I told them to get all the way down, and then I punched a hole in  
the wall, ripped it open wide enough for all of us, scooped the kids up, and flew us  
all down to the street. The firefighters were just arriving."

Lois broke into a grin, less for the story, more for the look of simple, satisfied  
pride on her friend's face. Bruce refused to discuss his work, his _real_  
work, the rare times they met up socially. Lois couldn't imagine he'd ever relate a  
story like this with anything approaching the happiness Clara so obviously felt in  
helping people. If anything, he'd be all grim and "I am vengeance" and such.

Superman would ...

Lois stopped that thought process right there. She didn't need to be thinking  
about Superman. He'd drifted away from her over the past few years, after  
Darkseid had brainwashed him. He'd gathered new friends around him who knew  
what it was like to be him, and lately he didn't have time to spend in boring old  
Metropolis.

Superman would have had that same honest joy, her traitorous mind told her  
anyway. He'd have talked about responsibility, and duty, but mainly, he'd have  
been like a little kid allowed to Help Out. He was completely unafraid of looking  
cheesy.

How could any woman help but fall for a guy like that?

"Lois, you okay?"

"Fine. Sorry. Must be tired."

"Well, we didn't get any sleep last night."

"I forgot. That explains it. Are you ready?"

Clara glanced down at her own plate and scooped up the last bite of her 'slaw.  
"Now I am."

The waitress was busy, so they left the money for the bill and the tip at the table.  
As they reached the car, Lois realized that she still didn't know where Clara lived,  
or at least pretended to live. "Is there somewhere I can drop you?"

"N-no," she replied. "I mean, I can get home from here without a problem."

"This isn't going to be a rerun of last night, is it?"

"I hope not. We're at your car and there aren't any men with guns in our faces,  
and you trust I can take care of myself now, right?"

"Point."

It was a one way street, and Lois had parked on the left. They stood awkwardly  
on the sidewalk beside the driver's side door.

And it _was_ awkward, Lois was quickly realizing. They'd been chatting  
like high school girls for the better part of the day, and suddenly, the air between  
them prickled differently and it wasn't just the wind.

"Clara?"

Clara stepped in closer, blocked the sudden wind from slicing through Lois's coat,  
and suddenly she was right there, and as if on autopilot, Lois tilted her head up  
and over and ...

And then her brain kicked into place, and she dropped her head and took a clumsy  
half-step back, banging her elbow on her window. "Wait."

Clara backed two steps away. "I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I didn't mean ... "

"No, it's okay. It's all ... Okay." Lois took a breath, grabbed Clara's hand before  
she could run, or fly, away. "I've been acting stupid, and I'm sorry."

"You're not stupid." Even now, Clara was trying to be sweet. _Why can't I  
meet a guy like this?_

"I guess, I mean, I could tell you," Lois hesitated, "liked me."

"I do. But ..." Clara stumbled over her next words, said them all in a jumble: "It  
isn't what you think. _Honestly._"

"It's all right. I like you, too. Just not in that way. Just not ... No." She watched  
Clara's face, hoping not to find too much hurt there. "Listen, you're one of the  
nicest people I've ever met. You're smart, you're strong, and you're funny.  
Though the elephant jokes have to go." A smile peeped for a moment on Clara's  
mouth and was gone. "If you were a guy, or you know, if I wasn't straight, I'd be  
all over you."

There was a pause, and Lois could not decipher her face or tone in her simple,  
"Really?"

"Swear to God."

Clara looked ... happy. Apparently Lois had said the right thing. Good. Because  
the last thing she wanted was to hurt her. Clara's face went through some  
interesting contortions, as she seemed to be framing and abandoning a handful of  
questions. Finally, she blurted, "Please say we can still hang around together?"

"Why wouldn't we?"

"I thought, maybe you'd be uncomfortable. Around me."

"Honey, the main superhero in this town is a guy with x-ray vision who flies  
around in his long underwear. If that doesn't keep me in lead-lined outfits,  
nothing's gonna faze me." Lois shifted gears slightly. She also took a quick look  
around, but there was no one nearby. "Do you know Wonder Woman by any  
chance? She's not seeing anybody that I know of, and if the rumor mill is right ... "

Clara was overtaken by a coughing fit. Lois decided not to press.

* * *

_Fifty percent less muscle mass._

They were only statistics.

When he'd put himself through the fitness test Sunday, the readouts told him he  
was more fit than the average woman, but still at lower strength, power, and  
endurance than when he was himself.

_Twenty percent less strength._

Robin, Batgirl and Oracle came at the gang members from three sides, swinging  
in on jumplines. There were a dozen or so tough-looking types robbing the row of  
small shops. Four went down in seconds — Batgirl kicked two at once, Robin  
and Oracle took one each. Broken glass covered the pavement and crunched  
beneath their boots as they landed.

The gang members still standing decided to abandon their original plan. One of  
them dropped his plunder. Two of them bolted, one in either direction. Robin  
grabbed the one heading south, Batgirl the one fleeing north. The remaining six  
foolishly ran in a clump.

_Twenty-five percent smaller lung capacity._

Oracle chased them on foot. Robin and Batgirl would likely use the rooftops and  
drop down from above once they caught up with Oracle. A two-pronged assault.  
Right now Oracle was just driving them.

The six turned into an alley that Oracle knew ended in a dead end.

Perfect.

And stupid.

As they skidded to a halt before the wall, he took out the nearest one with a flying  
kick. Using the momentum, he punched the one next to him in the solar plexus.  
Two down, four to go.

Very, very stupid.

The two he'd just taken out staggered but didn't go down. One of them waved his  
hand like a signal, and the six broke formation. Three scurried around behind  
him, three stayed in front.

Statistics were all very well, and beating them was fine. On the streets statistics  
meant for something — number of shootings, number of muggings, number of  
rapes, number of burglaries, number of felons released and out on the streets again  
within twenty-four hours. Odds of survival. Statistics meant something.

They weren't everything, though.

He'd been so busy rating his own stamina and skills, making sure he wasn't too  
tired, establishing that he was just as good as he'd been before, that he forgot. It  
was the ultimate distraction.

Oracle hadn't been driving them, they'd been leading him. Or rather, _her_.

One of the three standing behind him made kissing noises.

"You're new, aren't you?"

"Is your face as sexy as that outfit?"

"Wanna beat me up first, baby?" A short, chubby one with hairy arms pulled a  
handgun from his belt with suggestive movements.

There was a quick _**whip-whip**_ and the gun went flying. It hit the side of a  
dumpster with a _**clang**_ as Chubby cursed and clutched his hand. The batarang  
circled back to Oracle's outstretched hand.

"Ooh, she bites." A tall one with spiky blond hair and a gold hoop earring in one  
lobe grinned like a predator, showing perfect white teeth.

_Enough of this._

Leaping at Predator, he placed his hands on the man's shoulders to use as leverage  
as he used both legs to knock down one of his buddies. Predator was so surprised  
he didn't move at first.

Then he grabbed Oracle's wrists — Oracle was surprised how easily he was able  
to break the grip on his shoulders, he'd thought he'd had him — and flung Oracle  
against the dumpster. It knocked the breath from his body, but only for a moment.  
He punched one that ran at him.

The three who had been down got to their feet, rubbing sore spots and glaring at  
him angrily.

That wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to stay down.

The blow caught him off-guard; he felt something crunch in his jawline, felt his  
lip split open beneath the fabric of the full face mask.. It was a blow he should  
have been able to dodge — should have felt the air displacement, spotted the fist  
forming, the arm drawing back, read his movements.

Coolly and analytically, Batman diagnosed Oracle's problem. He was still  
throwing blows with the assumption of strength behind them that was no longer  
there. This made him less effective than Batgirl or even Robin. They were used  
to their bodies.

So very stupid.

One hand touching the dumpster behind him, Oracle stood in a semi-crouch as his  
opponents crowded in around him, looking for an opening, a weakness. One  
feinted towards him and he kicked him so hard the thug flew backwards several  
yards, landing hard.

This time, he stayed down.

The kick, however, left Oracle vulnerable for a moment. A burly, strong one  
grabbed him from behind, lifting him off his feet, pinning his arms to his sides.  
Again, Oracle felt surprise that he couldn't simply break the grip.

One of them grabbed at his left breast — he didn't get far, with the Kevlar —  
while Predator leaned close and began to whisper the specifics of what they were  
going to do to Oracle.

At first, the triple cocktail of surprise, rage, and, most unfamiliar, panic, paralyzed  
him. Something dripped down from the corner of his mouth; he tasted his own  
blood.

It snapped him back into focus. Rage sent panic whimpering into a dark corner.  
Part of it was humiliation for her-himself, and part was the realization that if this  
could be happening to _him_, now that he was a female crimefighter, it was  
a permanent potential for Batgirl. For Hawkgirl. For Diana. Didn't matter that  
they were tough, that they'd never let it happen, that any man who tried would  
carry his teeth home in a sack. There were some things Batman and Flash and  
Green Lantern never had to worry about. Until now

With Burly holding him from behind, he drew up his legs. One. Two. Chubby  
and another one fell, slumping like potato sacks. Predator tried to grab him and  
got a face full of boot for his troubles — teeth went flying, blood marred his  
perfect features. He'd made him angry but not taken him out, not yet. Predator  
got in another punch into Oracle's ribs before he broke free of Burly. Kicking  
backwards, his heel met a very vulnerable area just south of the area where  
Batman usually kicked people.

Desperate times, desperate measures.

Burly let out a whimpering grunt of pain and Oracle slipped lightly from his grasp,  
landing on the cement in a fighting crouch.

Robin and Batgirl dropped down on either side of the alley just as Oracle spun-  
kicked Predator into oblivion. The rest were all on the ground now, curled up and  
moaning, or just plain out cold.

It was an otherwise dashing entrance rendered anticlimactic.

"What took you?" Oracle said, calm and terse.

"We ... " Batgirl began, then noticed Oracle struggling for breath, leaning with one  
palm flat against the brick wall. "Are you hurt?"

She took a step closer, then said flatly, shocked, "You're bleeding."

She reached out but Oracle jerked away. "I'm fine."

Batgirl pulled back her hand as if an eagle had snapped at it.

"I'm sorry," she said, either because Oracle was bleeding or because she'd dared to  
try and help.

Robin rubbed the back of his neck uneasily, staring at Oracle. He bit his lip. This  
wasn't nearly as amusing as training in the Batcave had been.

"We should have remembered that you're ... " Batgirl tried again. "We should  
have let the other ones go and gotten here faster."

"No!" Oracle straightened up, hoping his wince wasn't visible. "I don't need your help."

The moment Batgirl folded her arms, she wasn't Batgirl anymore but Barbara,  
with every emotion written plainly on the exposed parts of her face. Like Dick,  
she wasn't much good at appearing impassive. Neither was Tim for that matter.  
The only one of them skilled at giving nothing away was Batman.

The words had come out more sharply than he'd meant them to.

"I can take care of myself," he told Batgirl, more gently this time. "And so can  
you."

* * *

Friday

* * *

Wally knew what a moll was really supposed to be but so far he'd managed to  
avoid that. He'd flirted, and dodged, and played hard-to-get with Roberts and all  
his men for days. He'd done his best to blend with the other girls that hung out  
at Roberts' mansion. Girls with teased hair and too much lipstick, they draped  
themselves over the members of the gang with uninhibited, cynical sensuality.

If Wally had seen any of those girls in passing, they'd have been eye-candy. He  
might even have offered a wolf-whistle. But he wouldn't have seriously pursued  
any of them. There were different types of girls in the world, and he'd been raised  
with very set ideas about "nice" girls vs the other kind.

In the last week, he'd learned it wasn't that simple.

Some of the women in Roberts' harem, beneath the makeup, looked far, far too  
young to dress like that, act like that, be like that. With several of them he'd had  
to resist the heroic impulse to wipe the makeup off their faces and stick them on a  
bus back to Illinois or wherever, complete with a scolding, big-brother lecture.

It would blow his cover, and they'd probably fall over laughing if he attempted it. So  
he kept his mouth shut and tried to imitate them and stayed on the assignment.

This was new: to ignore many small crimes in the name of stopping the big ones.  
Maybe that's what had given Batman his own very special blend of insanity.

At two a.m., Wally walked the darkened upstairs corridors of the mansion, pausing  
as he went by a nook that contained a marble statue of a half-naked girl, draped in a  
toga and reaching upwards to something unseen.

Earlier that day as he'd come down that corridor he'd heard one of the younger  
girls, Salli, protesting against the advances of one of Roberts' machine-gun heavies.  
The guy was hurting her. It had been easy enough to zip in, trip him so he fell out  
of the nook, and get gone again. Neither was the wiser and thought it was a freak  
wind coming in through the many french doors. It gave the girl time to flee, and  
gave Wally's conscience a temporary vent.

Sure, if he wanted to be truly heroic, he could deliberately try to draw more  
attention to himself and away from them, put himself between the gang members  
and the jailbait.

He wasn't that heroic. There were things, surely, his teammates didn't expect him  
to do. Right? Right.

Glancing down at the tight red dress he wore — the skirt stopped somewhere  
mid-thigh — he thought he'd better hurry up and get the information, fast. Get  
information, get back to Watchtower, get back to his real gender or at least back to  
wearing pants.

Although ... there were certain interesting things about this new form. It was  
almost fun.

Hey, it wasn't as if it was someone _else's_ body. He wasn't violating  
anyone else's privacy. It was _his_ body, only now it was _her_ body  
and didn't it just react in new and informative ways to certain routine activities  
he'd taken for granted before. He'd made mental notes on several responses that  
would (he hoped) come in handy. Prime opportunity. Not many guys had the  
same chance at research like this.

But on the whole, being undercover sucked eggs.

The dresses Bats had provided, all designer labels, were uncomfortable and his  
underwear rode up and his bra straps chafed and the pantyhose were diabolic  
torture devices. He'd bet money Diana never wore them even in her civvies.

For the thousandth time, he grumped to himself that SuperClara didn't have to go  
undercover as a moll. BatBrynne didn't have to go undercover as a moll.

Diana and Hawkgirl would _never_ agree to go undercover as molls and  
would rip anyone who suggested it a new one.

It wasn't fair.

So he wandered the halls in the middle of the night, hope to pick up a stray bit of  
info, anything that would make his assignment end sooner.

He turned the corner, catching a glimpse of himself — herself — in a huge,  
gilt-framed mirror. He waggled an eyebrow at himself appraisingly. In the dim  
light of the hallway, with makeup finally applied, if not right, then not like a drag  
version of the Joker, she wasn't too bad. If he spotted himself across the room at a  
party, he might ask himself out.

Both images hurt his brain. A lot. Particularly the Joker in drag.

"Molly."

Startled, Wally turned, fists instinctually coming up in a fight position.

Roberts' slender, athletic frame emerged from the shadows beside an open  
bedroom door, from which firelight flickered. His blond hair flopped over one  
eye and he was watching Wally with a lopsided smile on his boyish face. "What  
are you doing?" he asked, amusement in his voice.

"C-couldn't sleep." Wally cleared his throat. "I ... ah. I'm an insomniac. Walking  
makes me sleepy."

"There are better ways to cure _that_," Roberts said, the smirk deepening.

He wore a silk smoking jacket, open at the chest, Wally noted. _What a  
player._

Unsure of what to say next, Wally smoothed down his dress and smiled. Must be  
nice to the gang leader. Sooner they cracked this, the sooner the league could  
devote its attentions where it should be, which was to solve their gender identity  
crisis.

"C'mere." Roberts jerked his head back towards the bedroom.

_Me?_ Wally pointed to his chest in mock modesty, stalling for time.

Roberts crooked his index finger twice. _Come here, gorgeous._

For a second Wally hesitated. Following an expert womanizer into his bedroom  
at two a.m. seemed a good way to mess up the whole operation.

_Information. Get information. Never wear bra again._ Or thong. He liked  
the look of a woman in a thong, liked how a well-sculpted body could be perfectly  
outlined with a scrap of fabric. Plus, no panty line. He'd picked up half a dozen  
at Victoria's Secret before discovering that another word for "thong" was "floss,"  
with an added "butt" in front.

Wally moved past Roberts into the bedroom, careful not to brush against him,  
trying to walk casual.

It wasn't fair. It just wasn't fair.

Candles burned on the mantlepiece, on the windowsill, on the table, which was  
covered with a white tablecloth.

"Please, have a seat." Roberts graciously pulled out a chair for Wally. Gingerly,  
Wally sat.

A bucket of champagne chilled in a silver bucket, ice glinting in the firelight.  
Roberts sat in the other chair, which was on the adjacent side of the table from  
Wally's chair, not opposite it, curse the man. He lifted one of the silver domes  
covering the many platters, revealing two steaks.

"Molly, we haven't had a chance to talk since you arrived."

Evidently Roberts was of the school that believed the way to a woman's heart was  
through her stomach. He lifted another dome, and another. Steam curled up and  
away from a pair of large scarlet lobsters.

Wally inhaled. Big mistake. His stomach muttered.

"You're such a _busy_ man." Wally batted his — her — eyelashes (stupid  
pronouns, they were kicking his ass), resting his palm on his stomach to calm it  
down.

He was hungry. And there were _french fries._

Heck with it. As long as he was there, he might as well eat, right?

Wally ate almost constantly, a lot of junk food, a lot of carbs. It was his  
metabolism. John, finding the Watchtower refrigerator once again picked nearly  
clean, grumbled that he was like a plague of locusts, eating everything in his path.

"Your work must be so fascinating," Wally said with his mouth full of fries. He  
reached for a shell cracker and tackled the lobster. "I mean ... " _**crack**_ " ...  
keeping all the different subgangs from fighting, and so many people to keep track  
of ... " _**crack**_ "You must have some sort of way of keeping it all straight. A  
computer system or a ... "

"Yes, of course." Roberts put two slender fingers to his forehead and closed his  
eyes. "It is difficult, and stressful." He opened his eyes. "Please Molly, if you  
could take pity on me, talk to me about cabbages and kings. Not my work."

He actually did look tired. Also, he hadn't eaten anything, although he had  
consumed two whole glasses of champagne.

Hm. All the better. Better play along. If he got drunk enough, he might end up  
talking about a central database and passwords.

Wally gulped down a glass of champagne in a few swallows. He lowered his  
glass to see Roberts staring at him.

"Ah, a woman with an appetite for life." Roberts raised his glass. "Cheers."

They clinked wineglasses. Wally giggled and reached for the bottle. "More?"

As Wally watched Roberts grow more and more tipsy — and more talkative — he  
found himself giggling more and more often. Not because he was getting drunk  
(with his metabolism it would take four champagne bottles to feel a buzz), but  
because he wanted Roberts to feel flattered enough that he would give up his  
secrets.

Two lobsters, a steak, a plate of oysters, three chocolate mousses (mousse?  
meese? — grammar was his new arch-nemesis, he decided) and two champagne  
bottles later, Wally found himself sitting on the plush velvet couch next to  
Roberts, listening to him tell stories.

Maybe his metabolism wasn't as speedy as he'd thought.

On his thirtieth giggle, an unexpected sharp sadness made him catch his breath.  
Memories of girls, dozens of them, giggling at his own heroic stories, telling him  
how brave he was, urging him on, cascaded through his mind like falling bits of  
glass. On his thirtieth giggle he knew for a certainty none of them had found him  
funny. They hadn't wanted _him_. They wanted something _from_  
him and flattering his ego was their tool of choice.

What they were after, that was anyone's guess: the reflected glory of being seen on  
a date with one of the League, or simply bored girls, the sensation seekers, the  
curious.

The thirtieth giggle died in his throat. Then he focused on something Roberts was  
saying and it snapped him out of his funk. Yes, he'd mentioned computers.

"Ooh," Wally cooed, feeling more like a slut than if he was actually putting out,  
"You must need a lot of them to run an organization as big as Intergang."

"Indeed." Roberts had a very odd look in his eyes. There was something about it  
Wally thought he should find familiar. Before he could figure it out, Roberts'  
hand was cupping the back of Wally's head and Roberts' lips were on his — whoa,  
was that his TONGUE?

_Okayokayokay don't panic, don't panic, you'll blow your cover, just pretend  
you're kissing your brother ... Wait! I don't HAVE a brother! And if I did, he  
wouldn't USE TONGUE!_

_Ew! Ew ew ew ew ew ew ew!_

Something brushed against his breast — Roberts' fingers — and it shook Wally  
out of his shock and paralysis. In a heartbeat, he was standing behind the couch,  
the candles guttering out in his wake. Roberts pitched forward.

As he pushed himself up on his hands, looking around in confusion, Wally  
clubbed him at the base of the neck with a two-fisted punch, as Bats had taught  
him once.

Roberts' slumped face first onto the couch. His slippers slid off his slack feet onto  
the floor with two tiny soft thuds.

"Well I never," Wally eyed the unconscious crime boss. "I am _not_ that  
kind of girl!"

Before he fled back to his own room, Wally dragged Roberts onto the bed. He  
plucked a few red hairs from his own head and left them on the pillow, rumpling  
the covers and sheets so it would look like someone had slept on that side. With  
any luck, Roberts would think he'd had a good time before he passed out drunk.

_Info, info. He's gotta have something here ..._

Wally searched the room as fast as he could, which in his case meant between two  
snores from the guy on the bed. Or would have, if he'd not been in the tight dress.  
So if he was still looking three snores later, it could hardly be his fault, right?

_Hello ... _Roberts' laptop was stashed away in the bedside cabinet. Wally  
considered staying there to look at the files, then thought better of it. He could  
always sneak the computer back in the room, and in the meantime, he didn't want  
any stray beeps to wake up Roberts.

The hallway was empty. He snuck out, clasping the laptop to his chest, then  
ducked into another room — and ducked out again when he saw the couple  
snuggling inside.

"Sorry!" he trilled. _Um, right. Study?_ At this time of night, the study  
would be vacant. He _could_ just leave now, but if he was wrong, if there  
wasn't anything here, well, he could just see the looks on the others' faces when  
he told them he'd blown his cover just to bring them Roberts' porn stash.

He zipped into the study, clicked on a lamp, and started booting the computer.

It requested a username and password.

_Uh oh._

Wally touched his ear. "Hey, Bats, you busy?"

There was a long pause, long enough for Wally to remember what time of night it  
was, and then also to remember who it was he was contacting.

"Go ahead," came the terse reply.

"You busy?"

Another long pause. "Yes." She sounded tired and out of breath. Wally figured  
she was giving some lowlife in Gotham a lesson in anger management.

"It's just that I found Roberts's laptop, and I think it's got what we want, but it's  
asking for a username and password. Any ideas?"

"You'll need to break into it."

"Figured that. How?"

The sigh carried well over the comm. "Give me a minute." The line stayed open.  
Wally heard muffled grunts from the other end, a few rhythmic thuds, and a final  
_**crunch**_. "All right. This is what you need to do."

He followed the instructions as Bats dictated them, and within a few minutes, he  
had the computer's file directory open and waiting.

"Let me see ... " He clicked through, and pulled up a file named .  
He scanned it for content. "Bingo. This has got what we want. Gun sales and  
allocations. Man," he said, whistling, "I'm sure most of these things are illegal.  
You ever hear of a — "

Wally didn't know for guns. They weren't his interest, hadn't been since he was a  
little kid with an air rifle. So he really didn't know the difference between an HK  
MP5 and a P90, but he decided quickly, that didn't so much matter when one or  
the other was currently stuck in his ear.

"Hi, sweetheart," said the voice holding it. _Not Roberts,_ he thought.  
_Thank God._

And before he could so much as think, the butt of another gun made contact with  
the base of his skull, and Wally finally got that sleep.  



	5. The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop** (5/5)  
> A Justice League: TAS story  
> by Merlin Missy (**mtgat**) and Constance Eilonwy (**dotsomething**)  
> Copyright 2004  
> PG-13

**The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop** (5/5)  
A Justice League: TAS story  
by Merlin Missy (**mtgat**) and Constance Eilonwy (**dotsomething**)  
Copyright 2004  
PG-13

* * *

"Molly? _Molly!_" There was no answer. Oracle swore.

"What happened?" Robin came up beside him. Batgirl stood at the ready a few  
paces away.

"It's Flash. I need the two of you to finish up here." He indicated the unconscious  
crooks at their feet. Then he pulled out his grapple, found a rooftop in the  
direction of where they'd left the Batmobile, and fired. "I'm going after her."

* * *

"Oracle to League. Flash is in trouble."

"Can you be more specific?" Diana sent back.

"She'd just broken into Roberts' files when someone discovered her. I'm already  
on my way."

Somebody swore; Diana was sure it was John. "Be right there." The rest sent  
affirmations. Diana stayed quiet as they started coordinating. The other five on-  
world would be more than enough to extract Flash from her troubles. If they sent  
J'onn in disguise, they might even do it without completely compromising her  
cover.

The monitors kept silent watch. The last alert to come through had been a bank  
robbery in Central City, but Lantern and Hawkman had given the robbers a bad  
day hours ago.

Diana chewed her lip. Then she retasked a satellite to view the location of  
Roberts' mansion in Metropolis. She told herself she was just being cautious,  
scoping out the area in advance for the others. When the satellite was in position,  
she zoomed into the area of interest.

The mansion was surrounded: men in black SUVs, men on foot, and everyone  
was armed. Maybe two or three dozen; it was hard to tell in the dark. They were  
lit only with headlights, and with the few warm lights placed strategically around the  
mansion as security.

She slammed her hand on the alert button. "Watch out, everyone. It's a war zone  
down there." Even as she spoke, she saw Ultrawoman fly into range. She was  
greeted with gunfire.

Diana's breath caught. There was nothing she could do from here to aid them  
now. Nothing of value to contribute. She flicked another camera view, and  
looked at the landing bay. The Javelin was there, waiting for her.

She needed to stay up here, stay out of the way, stay calm. Her new body was  
too unpredictable, too fragile. She could be injured. She could die.

Flash was in trouble, and their friends were headed into a fire fight to save her.

As Diana sprinted to the landing bay, she knew there never really had been a  
choice.

* * *

Clark ducked the bullets spraying at him. Some caught his costume, took small  
chunks with them. _Perfect._ Flash was inside, could be hurt or worse.  
Bullet holes were not high on his list of priorities.

He dove, and the armed men below him started to key in that the woman they  
were shooting wasn't backing away. The brighter ones started running.

Clark scooped up one of the vehicles parked outside the mansion and tossed it at  
another. The resulting explosion scattered the men. He smiled grimly. Then he  
saw the laser cannon, set up by the men who'd run, aimed directly at his chest.

He dodged the initial blast, but the second caught his arm and burned off the  
fabric there.

_Dammit!_

This was going to take a little longer than he'd anticipated.

* * *

"So," said the voice in the darkness. "FBI? ATF?"

Wally intended to say, "What are you talking about and why does my head hurt?"  
but it came out: "Hurmpfrlguh?"

"I said, which agency are you with?" The darkness was fading. A man's face  
leaned over him, not an especially good-looking man, either. His nose looked  
squashed, like maybe he'd been in too many fights, and he was fat.

"Hooyu?" _Who are you?_

His eyes focused further. Another man, just out of clear vision, held a needle and  
was slowly pushing the air bubble out the tip. "Mr. Roussimoff, I can't guarantee  
how the sodium thiopental will react with the diazepam. It may simply put her  
back to sleep."

"Do what you can. She's obviously a spy. I want her pliable."

Pain. Pain. Pain in his arm. He could just move his head enough to see the  
needle pull out again. _Oh damn._

"Now," said the ugly man. "Whom do you work for?"

_Thiopental? Isn't that truth serum?_ Wally didn't feel like telling the truth.  
Didn't feel like doing much but laying here. He tried lifting his arm, found that to  
be too much trouble.

"Which agency do you work for? I'm losing patience."

Wally lolled his head. "M'lassjob wazzatmacdonalls. Gofired." Now that he  
considered the situation, it did not seem fair; he'd been let go just because he'd  
believed the manager's "free food on breaks" policy. A lump formed in his throat  
at the injustice of free fries.

"The serum may take some time to reach full effectiveness," said Needle Guy. A  
noise from outside filtered through the haze in his head. An explosion?

Ugly Guy turned back to Wally. "It looks like we don't have the time right now  
to ask you what I want to know. But you _will_ tell me. Everything." Ugly  
Guy brushed a finger over Wally's cheek, making his skin crawl. Then Ugly Guy  
slipped his hand down and pinched Wally's breast through his dress. Wally  
yelped in pain.

"I think, my dear, that you need to spend some time considering the variety of  
exquisitely painful things I can and will do to you when we're finished here."  
Ugly Guy slid his hand down more. Wally bit his tongue to keep from reacting to  
the touches.

They had truth serum, and Ugly Guy had just threatened to torture him and maybe  
even rape him to get information. While Wally wasn't a Fed, the secrets he kept  
weren't things he wanted Roussimoff and friends to know. As his mind floated,  
he tried not to think about anything else, 'cause he just couldn't deal.

"Sir?" Another guy had entered the room, ths one no beauty-prize winner, either.

Ugly Fat Guy — Roussimoff — smirked at Wally one last time and pulled away.  
"Gag her and bring her. I can still use her."

Hands grabbed his hair, tugged his head forward. Ugly Skinny Guy gagged him  
with a strip of cloth, someone else bound his hands, and he was dragged out of the  
room — they were still in the study — and back towards Roberts' room. From  
other parts of the building, he heard gunfire, and shouts, and some of the girls  
were crying.

Roberts was an ass. Wally had no doubts about that, would be glad to see the guy  
rotting in jail. _Roussimoff_, Wally'd be happy to send to Hell personally .  
As soon as he could move any of his limbs.

Roberts was tied up in his own room, still in his bed. No gag. Wally was tossed  
beside him. For what it was worth, Wally looked at him with the widest, most  
frightened eyes he could muster. Roberts looked back at him, almost reassuringly.

_Bats, please be on the way._ No guarantees on that, though. He was pretty  
sure the line'd been open when he'd gotten clonked, but his short-term memory  
wasn't the most reliable thing just now.

"Molly, what did they do to you?" "Dread Boss" Roberts was concerned. Huh.

Wally shook his head, or tried to, to show that he was okay. Instead, his head  
kind of lolled more, and his vision swam.

"How sweet," Ugly Guy sneered. "The two of you must be very close."

"Let her go," said Roberts. "She's just some dumb kid. She doesn't know  
anything."

"She knows more than you think. She's a spy, you buffoon."

Roberts looked back at Wally, and there was a more calculating expression on his  
face that Wally didn't like. He tried shaking his head, and was just as successful  
as before.

"She's been working for me."

_Whatwhatwhat?_

Wally tried desperately to talk around the gag, to say something, to do anything.

"You kept asking me about Intergang last night. You lying little _cunt_,  
when I get my hands on you ... "

Great. Now Roberts hated him, too.

"You won't have the chance," Roussimoff said smoothly. "Considering you're  
about to die. I just wanted you to know how badly you've been betrayed before  
you died." There were more screams from outside, closer. Roussimoff ignored  
them. He waved to one of his goons, who aimed his gun at Roberts.

Wally forced all his strength into his arms. He managed to move them just off his  
lap, and down again. The movement caught Robert's attention.

"If she's yours, why did you tie her and gag her?" Wally had to give the guy  
credit; he wasn't stupid.

Roussimoff shrugged. "She already told me everything. She has outlived her  
usefulness. Besides, I think this is far more fitting: the lovers die together."

"We weren't lovers!" came Wally's indignant response. It came out as a muffled  
"Grr grrrr grr!"

Roussimoff twitched his hand, and suddenly the goon was aiming at Wally. _I  
thought he wanted to interrogate me,_ came the last rational thought before  
pure panic set in. Later, when his brain was free of the drugs, he would recollect  
that the gun was aimed at his shoulder and conclude that Roussimoff no doubt just  
wanted to wound him in front of Roberts, and would use the new wound as a fun  
and educational means of pumping him for more information.

Just now, though, all Wally saw was the gun barrel, and the goon's finger  
tightening slowly on the trigger in the weird slow-motion way things sometimes  
went into for him.

_Damndamndamndamndamndamndamn. Our Father who art in the United  
States of America ... _

A batarang knocked the gun away. As the goon grabbed his hand, a solid punch  
broke his jaw. Wally saw a lithe, dark figure spring through the room, dodging as  
another thug drew his weapon, then landing a kick to the man's ear that sent him  
sprawling. The face was completely covered, which was creepy, but Wally had  
never been so glad to see anyone in his life.

He made a noise, saw the dark figure twitch at the sound.

Roussimoff punched wildly at Bats, found his arm pinned up behind his back.  
With a roar, he ducked and then kicked her, hard. There was an "Oof," very  
quietly from behind the mask. She regained her footing almost instantly, but now  
Wally could hear her breathing harder.

He felt something moving, saw Roberts struggling beside him. To his great  
surprise, Roberts got his hands free and with a shout, launched himself. At  
Wally's neck.

Wally squealed under the gag, and then couldn't make any noise at all as the wind  
was crushed from him. He heard a loud thump, but saw nothing through the  
growing blackness in his vision. He head pounded, and he was starting to fade.

The pressure ceased. A moment later, the gag was ripped off him, and he drew  
big, wonderful gulps of air into his burning throat. As his vision returned, he saw  
Roberts sprawled in a heap next to him in bed.

"Are you all right?" demanded the woman in black.

He nodded. "Even as a girl," he wheezed, "you're a big scary freak." This, sadly,  
came out sounding like: "Eengrl yubgscrfrk."

A green field materialized around them a half-second before bullets sprayed in  
their direction. Roussimoff had recovered from whatever Bats had done to him,  
and had murder in his eyes. GL extended the field to cover their exit. Bats  
grabbed him under the arms, and dragged him out while Roussimoff screamed  
behind them. John formed a green fist from the field and punched Roussimoff.

"Is she okay?"

"She'll be fine," said Bats. Then she stared more closely at Wally, taking all of  
her into a glance. "I think she's been drugged." Wally nodded loosely. The  
adrenaline rush from almost dying twice was losing the fight with the drugs in his  
veins. He hadn't felt this relaxed since that one weekend his freshman year.

"Here," Bats said. "Take her. She can't walk on her own." She dumped Wally  
into John's arms.

GL didn't have time to get out a "But!" before Bats was halfway down the hall,  
batarang in hand, aiming for lackeys.

Wally looked up at John. "You're my best friend, you know that?" became  
"Yurmabessfrennodat?"

John rolled her eyes. "This is why we don't go out drinking together." Wally  
slumped happily.

* * *

Shayera held her mace in the air. The man in her grip cowered as she snarled. As  
usual, as always, she wanted to beat the hell out of someone deserving, and once  
again, she was going to have to hold herself back because the rest of the League  
shared some dotty illusion that one should leave one's enemies alive.

The guy whimpered once more, then passed out. Disgusted, she threw him aside.

At least she was allowed to beat up the supervillains when they came her way.  
That was something.

"Hey, hon?" She turned her head. John floated down the hall with a woman in  
her arms. "Can you watch this a minute?" She passed the sleeping woman off  
into Shayera's confused arms. "Thanks!"

"What the — ?" She looked closer. _Flash?_

She swore, then put Flash over her shoulder as she went down the hallway. She  
didn't have to look far for more trouble. From inside a room, she heard someone  
trying to shout for help.

The door and its hinges really didn't have much of a chance.

There were four men in suits with weapons, and two very frightened-looking  
young women — hardly more than children — in not very much at all. Someone  
aimed a gun at her and she spun out of the doorway just in time; the bullets hit the  
wall opposite the door, spraying them both with plaster and paint chips.

She could easily go back in and pummel the men senselessly, but it would mean  
either using Flash as a shield, or dumping her here. Neither seemed a good idea.

Diana flew down a hallway catty-cornered to the one she crouched in with Flash.  
"Hey 'Apollo!'" Diana turned. Shayera tilted her head. "Some guys are being  
_very_ impolite to two women in there. Lend a hand?"

Diana smirked. Shayera raised her eyebrow, and then backed off to give him  
room. She didn't like it much when men acted inappropriately around women,  
but Diana got _really_ pissed off. As he neared the room, more bullets flew,  
and bounced harmlessly off Diana's bracelets.

"I've got them," he said. Shayera grabbed Flash and headed outside.

She saw J'onn drop two more guys into the pool. "Hey, J'onn, can you find a  
place to put this?" She handed Flash over before he could object. "Thanks, bye!"

She spun in mid-air, just in time to deflect a damn laser bolt aimed at her head.  
The cannon was going to have to go. If that destruction happened to be in an  
exceptionally violent manner, the others couldn't object much, right?

She raised her mace again, shouted, and charged.

* * *

The crooks rapidly discharged all their ammo at Diana; not one of them had  
noticed the bracelets, had put two and two together. She glowered at them, taking  
in the room, the two dead men beside the bed — Roberts' she was sure — the  
looks of terror on the too-young female faces beside them, the reek of pot and the  
stubbed-out joints on the carpet.

She wanted to shout at the men, scream at them that they and their ilk were why  
her mother and sisters had hidden themselves away from the world for thousands  
of years, that they were all she believed of the worst of men. She came closer,  
and one threw his gun at her — one always did. She picked him up, threw him  
headfirst out the window and did not bother to see where he landed.

The room pitched, then righted itself. Diana shook it off.

Another man tried to crawl past her and got a kick in the solar plexus he wouldn't  
forget soon.

The other two watched her in fear, and then looked past her.

"I'm not falling for — " The room did much more than pitch this time. It turned  
upside down, spun around, and the ceiling seemed the be the floor. A tremendous  
invisible weight throughout her limbs seemed to want her to be on the ceiling.

The first shot grazed her leg. There was no second shot.

By the time her head cleared enough to notice that she had, somehow, fallen to her  
knees, a dark shadow was atop the shooter, beating his face into the carpet. The  
shooter scrabbled for purchase against the form, grabbed the face, pulled. Diana's  
vision blurred again.

"Di — Apollo." Oracle was kneeling beside her, pulling the mask back on  
hurriedly. Another thug was whimpering in pain on the floor clutching his crotch.

Diana rubbed her eyes with her fingers. The dizziness subsided and did not return.  
"I'm fine."

One of the women shouted, "Look out!"

Against all logic, one of the remaining men in the room had grabbed a lamp to  
hurl at them. Reflexively, Diana's hand shot up and caught it. She tossed it to  
the woman who had shouted.

"Here. Use this." The woman grinned.

"Diana?" Oracle said, sounding unexpectedly uncertain.

"I'm fine," Diana repeated, looking into the blank, dark area of Oracle's full face  
mask. It was unnerving. A faceless woman. The odd thing was, that when she  
was a _he_, and wore a mask that covered only the top half of his face, the  
face was just as unreadable.

Odder still, even after Oracle had helped Diana to her feet, Oracle's hands stayed,  
gently holding on her shoulder and her arm.

The thug who had thrown the lamp made a wild, desperate rush at them, as if he  
knew it was helpless but he couldn't figure out what else to do. Oracle and Diana  
stepped to either side at the same time. Diana grabbed him by the collar of his  
sports coat, and pitched him out the window. Oracle nodded silently and left her  
side to zip-strip the man on the floor.

The last conscious man looked up at her from the floor, looked at the other women  
— one of whom was making thoughtful motions regarding the lamp and his head —  
and dove out the broken window.

"Did they harm you?" she asked the two women. They shook their heads. "Then  
go. And hurry." She glanced into the hallway; the man who'd tried to shoot her was  
also becoming intimately familiar with Oracle's zip-strips.

The smaller of the two, the one with the lamp, smiled at her. "Who are you?"

"That doesn't matter," she said.

"But we want to thank you." There was meaning in that. The woman, no _girl_,  
was short and blonde and very pretty, and all she saw when she looked at Diana was  
a large, well-muscled man who'd just rescued her. Diana sighed inwardly, and those  
same muscles reminded her of the price she was paying for their use.

"Then do so by returning to your homes, and," she paused, "finishing high school.  
Now go."

They made their way out of the room past the heap on the floor.

Oracle asked, "Are you injured?" Injured? Oh yes, her leg.

Diana looked down. "It's a scratch. It damaged my clothing more than me."

There was a shout from down the hall. They shared a glance, and went to  
investigate.

* * *

J'onn formed another arm to hold onto Flash as he flew. Her thoughts were  
jumbled and sluggish, possibly drugged. She barely stirred as they flew over the  
battle. Despite Hawkman's hurried instructions before he went ballistic on the  
laser cannon, there was no good place to put her.

He sent out quick thoughts: Oracle and Diana were inside; Green Lantern had just  
exited, nine men in a bubble to be deposited elsewhere; Ultrawoman was just  
coming into view.

_It's Flash,_ he sent as Ultrawoman began registering confusion. Ultrawoman  
nodded, and then pointed. Several men had broken ranks and were running for  
the tree line surrounding the mansion. With Flash still tucked against his back  
with the additional arm, J'onn swooped in from one side while Ultrawoman  
came in from the other. They gathered half a dozen men between them, then  
J'onn morphed into a giant sand slurg to frighten them as Ultrawoman grabbed a  
garden hose from near the pool and flew around them several times to tie them  
together.

Ultrawoman wiped her hands on her costume, then flew off into the house before  
J'onn could manage to hand Flash to her.

J'onn thought a rude word, but did not transmit it.

* * *

John had created a bubble in the middle of the front yard. As thugs were tied up  
or tossed out windows by the others, he gathered them into the pile. He started  
humming as he sent out constructs to gather more fallen crooks. So far, no  
casualties on their side, and not a bad night all around.

J'onn landed beside him and dropped Flash gently at his feet.

"Here. Since you're standing in one place, watch over her."

"Can't you — " but J'onn was already off. John glanced over, saw the hosed-up  
men in the side yard near the pool, and pincered them up and towards the bubble  
with the rest.

Flash let out a little snore, and shivered in her sleep.

"At least you're okay," John mused as he floated a struggling man across the lawn.

"You little bitch," spat a guy coming from around the other side.

John whipped his head around, careful to keep his concentration also focused on  
the bubble. The man was maybe in his early forties, still young-looking, well-  
polished, or would have been without the bruises over his face and the  
unadulterated hatred in his eyes. Which were focused on the slumped figure at  
John's feet.

Flash's eyes rolled open. "Oh," she said, and fell back asleep.

_Roberts?_

The guy had found a gun somewhere, was loading a clip into it as he walked,  
mindless of the fighting, and fleeing, still going on around him. He was wearing  
the remnants of a well-made smoking jacket and nothing else.

"Cold tonight, huh?" John said.

"Gonna get you," he replied. John focused another shield around himself and Flash.  
He could take the guy out without much problem, once he had the other group of  
men inside the big bubble.

"_Roberts!_" bellowed another man, from the front door. The second man  
spotted Roberts and started firing. John yanked the tied-up thugs the rest of the  
way and dumped them inside. The second man fired wildly; his left arm was  
hanging limply at his side. He missed Roberts by a mile, spattered shot over the  
force bubble.

"They cover each other," Flash said clearly.

"What?"

"They always do," she said, and started snoring again.

More gunfire, and John was sick of this. He made giant pliers and plucked the  
gun from Roberts' grip. The other guy laughed, and took better aim at him as  
Roberts hit the dirt. John directed the pliers to the second man, but didn't need to;  
Apollo body-slammed him from behind, knocking him senseless to the front  
stoop.

Roberts smiled tightly, then pulled a pistol he'd stuffed in his waistband and shot  
at Apollo.

At some point, people were going to understand the whole "deflecting bullets with  
bracelets" thing, but apparently tonight was not that night. Roberts emptied his  
clip, then stood there slack jawed as Apollo flew towards him.

While he was distracted, John gave him a smack on the back of the head that sent  
him to night-night land.

"I had him," Apollo said.

"I know." He dropped the force field. "Can you do something with this?" He  
prodded Flash with his toe.

"She looks comfortable there."

"She's in the way. And she's going to get frostbite in that outfit."

There was a scream from the doorway. Another guy stood there, clutching his  
hand in pain. Ultrawoman appeared, eyes cooling from red back to normal.

"Watch your backs, people." She frowned at the man. "Rialto, don't tell me  
you're already out."

"Huh?"

She decked him. "I am rapidly losing faith in the penal system in this state."  
Flash snickered.

John took the opportunity to leave Flash with Apollo and gather up his prisoners,  
plus three more. He'd seen a pool house in the back that looked entirely too  
empty not to fill with mostly-dazed scum.

* * *

Apollo looked down at the again peacefully sleeping Flash. "I can't carry her and  
fight. Find a warm place and put her there." Then he flew past Clark back into the  
house.

Clark picked up Flash. "And I can?" he asked of no one at all.

"Hiya," said Flash.

"I need to find a spot for you to take a nap."

"Okay." She closed her eyes again as Clark scanned the area for someplace safe.

"They cover each other. We don't notice 'cause it's never us."

"Who?" He wasn't really paying attention. Whatever dream Flash was having  
had to be better than this.

"Diana n' Hawkgirl." Ah. _That_ dream.

Flash gestured limply. "There's guys. Always guys. Hurt 'em. Could. Not us  
though. So they cover. Jussincase." Okay, maybe _not_ that dream. "We  
don't have to be afraid," she said, and finished the last word mid-snore.

Clark found a suitable spot. "Sleep it off, Flash," he advised, and shut the door.  
Flash would be all right for now. He heard more gunfire, this time in the basement,  
and went to do some good.

* * *

Afterwards, they all met outside.

Ultrawoman cocked her head to the side. "I just heard sirens. Time to go."

"I'll stay," said J'onn. "Someone should explain to the police."

Oracle bent over the laptop one last time, then ejected a disk. "Here. This  
contains all the information they should need to arrest Roberts."

"You're just giving them the info?" asked Hawkman.

J'onn took the laptop. Oracle's face was completely covered once more, but  
Diana could sense the smile as the disk went into a pocket of her utility belt.  
Oracle would be hunting later.

"Ah," said Hawkman.

"Who had Flash last?" asked Lantern.

Ultrawoman raised her arm. She told J'onn, "She's sleeping it off in the hall  
closet just inside the door."

"I'll get her before I leave."

"Reconvene at the Watchtower for debriefing," said Oracle. "Lantern?"

John nodded and formed a force bubble; the five of them stepped inside, and were  
over the trees as the the police arrived beneath them.

"You know," said Ultrawoman. "I never saw you do a construct of tweezers  
before."

"First thing that came to mind."

"I liked the tennis racket," said Hawkman. John grinned. The three of them  
began going over the battle point by point, not waiting for the debriefing.

Diana let out a sigh and sat down on the floor of the bubble, watching the sky  
grow darker as they left the atmosphere. Oracle sat beside her.

"Are you all right?"

"Tired," she admitted. "And hungry. I can't imagine how Flash does this every  
day." At least the dizziness was gone.

In a very low voice, Oracle said, "As the person who's paid her food bill for the  
past week, I can't say I understand either."

Diana smiled.

"Tell me," said Oracle with that same hush, "since you left Themyscira, has  
anyone ever ... disregarded you as a warrior?" In any other instance, Diana would  
have tried to read the face asking the question, but Oracle's mask gave nothing  
away.

"On occasion. I believe Hawkgirl has encountered it more often than I. No one  
has ever made that mistake twice, for either of us."

Oracle released her breath; such a thing would have gone unnoticed from any  
other, but from Bruce it was loud as a gasp. Diana tilted her head. "You could  
take off your cowl, you know. Nobody here knows who you are when you're  
female. Brynne." Diana had only gotten a glance of her face without the mask.

"I like it."

"That _was_ you in Metropolis Monday, wasn't it? With Superman?"

Oracle nodded.

Diana had a near-perfect memory. She recalled a face not entirely unlike Bruce's  
own, dark hair with a bit of curl, astounding blue eyes. At the time, she hadn't  
had been able to give the woman much thought, but now, Diana had little problem  
remembering her. Brynne had been quite attractive.

These were unusual feelings. She liked her teammates, certainly, regarded them  
all as her friends. As a rule, that's where it stopped. The men were, well, _men_,  
and her only (normally) female teammate ...

She glanced to the front of the bubble again. The three of them argued over who  
had thrown a particular lackey through the patio door. Hawkman was  
demonstrating how he'd picked the man up — rather impolitely based on the  
looks of sympathy from Ultrawoman and Green Lantern — then tossed him  
through the glass. As Hawkman moved, he brushed against Lantern's arm, and she  
smiled fondly back.

Diana was both astounded and amused that they believed no one else knew.

Far too much time had passed since Diana herself last felt that giddy sensation in  
her stomach, since she had played at secret kisses and surreptitious rendezvous.  
When she had come to Man's world, she had accepted that she was unlikely to  
find the companionship to which she was accustomed. Even Audrey, who was  
her closest friend, was content to stay merely her friend. For all that Diana might  
wistfully consider otherwise from time to time, she did not push for more.

And now ...

Oracle was silent beside her. That was Bruce's gift, to become part of the  
shadows.

She wondered what it might take to coerce Brynne into the sunshine.

* * *

Maggie was never certain precisely what happened at the Roberts mansion. Sure,  
the men they rounded up claimed, later, that they'd been attacked by metahumans,  
but none of them could describe their attackers well. She got a few vague  
descriptions that sounded almost like the pair the papers were calling Apollo and  
Ultragirl, but the Martian Manhunter was the only hero-type _she_ saw  
hanging around. While he tended to spend his time with the Justice League, he told  
her they were on a deep-space assignment and couldn't be reached.

Maggie bet herself privately that most of the damage was done by either side, with  
a last-minute clean-up effort by the Martian to allow some metahuman blame to  
go around. She had a list of weapons and possession violations as long as her arm  
to press charges against all the parties involved.

They'd found nineteen women in the house, some hangers-on of Roberts, most  
in training for street work whether they knew it or not. The oldest was twenty-six,  
and her self-admitted job was finding new faces for Roberts, hooking them on whatever  
Roberts was selling this week then coercing the girls into turning tricks for more. The  
oldest woman was going to see an extended list of charges on her rap sheet. The  
youngest ... Maggie was personally making sure Roberts was in prison a good long  
time.

The women would be sent downtown with everyone else, would get fingerprinted  
and photographed and allowed to spend the rest of the night sleeping at the  
station, all courtesy of taxpayer expense. In the morning, the ones who wouldn't  
have possession charges filed against them or weren't still in the hospital for  
observation would walk free. Maggie was betting Vice would meet more than  
half of them again within the month. It burned her stomach and robbed her of  
sleep, but there was no budget for a rehab program.

Both Roberts and Roussimoff were unconscious. This, she mused, was not a bad  
thing.

* * *

J'onn watched quietly from the sidelines as the police rounded up, and in many  
cases carried off, all the participants in tonight's festivities. He had given the  
laptop to Inspector Sawyer, with instructions on how to access the necessary  
information. In her mind, he read the words "evidence tampering," but she took  
the computer anyway. She was certain there would be other usable data inside,  
and J'onn had agreed.

The police vans were beginning to pull away. He needed to retrieve Flash and  
head back to the Watchtower.

He rendered himself incorporeal to glide through the remaining police officers,  
and went to the closet where Flash was sleeping. His eyes adjusted instantly to  
the dark, so when he did not see her immediately, he knew it was not his vision.

Nevertheless, he called out, "Flash?"

He opened his mind carefully, looking for tendrils of Flash's odd mind. However,  
if she was still asleep in a different room, he would not necessarily know she was  
there without being physically much closer.

He glided out of the closet, and found Inspector Sawyer standing there.  
"Inspector?"

She jumped. "Didn't see you come in. Was there something else?"

"Yes. There was a young woman asleep in this closet earlier."

"We rounded her up with the other women and sent them downtown for processing.  
Van left about ten minutes ago."

"Oh."

* * *

Bruce, er, _Brynne_ typed something into the computer, and the display  
changed while Clark stood beside her, watching her work. The glow of the display  
washed over them, giving their skin and dark hair a greenish tint for a moment.

"So ... you've been in Gotham the last few days, mostly?"

_You kept disappearing when I needed you to be here. Who do you think you  
are, thinking you can go off wherever you want, whenever you want, when we're  
dealing with a crisis like this? Something must be wrong, more than with the rest  
of us. What is it? Let me help you._

_**click clack**_ Brynne typed something else, kept on working. "Hm," she said, in  
what was probably meant to be an affirmative.

Clark could translate in his own head: _Yes, I went to Gotham, not that it's any  
of your business._

"What you were doing there?" His tone was carefully, politely disinterested.

_If I let on that I am at all worried about you, or care, you'll close yourself off  
even more and tell me nothing so I'm going to pretend I don't care, and ask in the  
most uninvasive way possible. Not that I'm very good at subtlety._

"I had some ... personal matters to take care of."

_Since you are prying so persistently, but I know you mean well, I'll throw you  
a bone. I went home to be with my family. Because I wasn't as fast anymore,  
because I was suddenly weaker, vulnerable, a liability. The people I trust most  
could help me be an effective warrior again. They're the only ones I can safely  
show my vulnerabilities to._

"You could have told us, you know."

_Wait, aren't we your family? Don't you trust us? Why didn't you ask the  
League for help? We could have retrained you._

"Told you what?" _**clickety-clack**_ _**beep**_

_Look, I threw you a bone, be grateful and shut up. I'm now going to pretend I  
have no idea what you're talking about._

"Nothing. Nothing."

_Uh-oh. I pried too hard and spooked you. Sorry, backing away now._

There was a pause, filled with the spinning of the computer drives and the deeper,  
softer background hum of the Watchtower's running systems.

"You know, Hawkman was wobbling all over the place at first. Had to learn to fly  
all over again."

_Except ... Look, we all had trouble adjusting. Hawkman couldn't fly anymore  
because his ... her ... center of gravity was different. Her breasts were gone and  
her muscles grew. And you can just imagine what Diana went through: she's an  
Amazon and then suddenly she's a man? And John ... John was a wreck, and we  
all know why._

Another series of keys pressed, and the display changed again.

"If you were having trouble ..." Clark watched Brynne's fingers move deftly over  
the keypad, "Adjusting, I mean."

_Why do you think you're invulnerable? It's like you expect yourself to be more  
than human._

"I wasn't."

_I'm going to outright lie to you because you're treading dangerously close to  
the thin emotional ice and I don't want you to go there._

"Sure. Because everything was fine for you. We all went through adjustments,  
but you had no trouble at all."

_You stubborn bastard._

Brynne again made the small sound of affirmation.

_Yup. That's me. Deal._

For a few more moments, he stood next to her, then sighed and turned to go.

Before he walked away, he said, "I understand, you know. My first instinct  
was to go home, too." He took a few more steps towards the exit, his steps  
tapping on the metal floor, then stopped again, lobbing one last volley before  
leaving. "You're not as tough as you look. You could have come to us."

_I've got you figured out. This change was upsetting on levels far beyond just  
new physical limitations, so you needed your family — the folks you've known  
the longest. I get that. I wanted to go home to Kansas, badly. You think you're so  
tough, but ha! You see, I'm onto you, you're actually vulnerable. What I don't get  
is, if you were feeling like that, why didn't you ask us, your friends, your brothers  
in arms?_

* * *

Bruce was alone. He whispered aloud: "No, I couldn't."

_Because I couldn't come to you and it's something you will never truly  
understand, Clark, because you can bend steel and stop bullets with your chest. I  
need Kevlar to keep me alive; I have to rely on smoke and mirrors and agility and  
brainwork. I'm already the weakest physically. I'm the only human in a group of  
people who can fly, who can create matter out of nothing, who can run faster than  
a speeding bullet. And if I let any of you see that I was one bit less effective a  
fighter than I was before, it would be over. Not because I'm afraid one of you  
might turn and crush me one day. It's not that. It's because if you saw that  
vulnerability, the team wouldn't be effective anymore. Because of how we all are.  
Because I'd be that way myself — you'd all start trying to protect me instead of  
letting me do my job. So no, Clark. I couldn't._

I'm sorry.

J'onn beeped from the Javelin, and Bruce donned his mask — the attitude he  
always wore around these powerful beings no matter what physical mask covered  
his face — and answered the call.

* * *

The lift doors opened.

"Copy," said Oracle at the control panel as J'onn cut the connection. She turned  
in her chair to coolly acknowledge the others. "The police took Flash away.  
She's probably still asleep. One of us will have to go by in the morning, _after_  
she's slept it off, and straighten things out."

"Where's J'onn now?" asked Diana.

"Headed back in the Javelin."

Diana was about to ask where Ultrawoman had gone, but then Ultrawoman flew  
down from the Crow's Nest, and the expression on her face forbade further  
questioning.

"Flash's in _jail_?" Lantern asked. Then she amended, "Again?"

"No giant gorillas this time," Ultrawoman reminded her.

"I'm sure that'll make her feel much better."

"C'mon," said Hawkman, grabbing her arm. "I'll buy you a cup of coffee in the  
mess while we wait for J'onn to get back." Lantern let him lead her off. Diana  
watched them go.

Then, for the moment, it was simply the three of them. Diana spent her time in  
the company of all her coworkers, this was true, but there was something special  
about those rare times she was alone with both Superman and Batman, or  
Ultrawoman and Oracle as they were now. The two men literally came from  
different worlds, and they were opposites in practically every way. Superman was  
almost insanely optimistic; aside from the Demon, Batman was the greatest cynic  
she'd ever met. Superman sported a myriad of special powers and strengths,  
granted to him by the light of Earth's yellow sun; Batman's powers were of night  
and mystery and concealment. And yet, although they often quarreled like  
siblings, they also joined side by side like those same brothers in their fight  
against evil.

When she was in the room with the two of them, she felt a peaceful balance, a  
kind of rightness with the world. And also ...

Oracle removed her cowl, and slicked back her sweaty hair with a hand.

Also, they knew one another's secrets, and there was a comfort in that knowledge,  
another confederation. Diana raised an eyebrow at her.

Oracle grumbled, "The full face mask gets hot."

She hid her grin. Her memory had not been playing tricks on her; Oracle was  
_very_ pretty, despite her current split lip. As a bonus, Diana had already  
come to know the soul inside the shell, and she had to admit, Bruce was more  
worthy of a compatriot, and friend, than she had previously believed possible in a  
male. Old prejudices died hard. Diana would not mourn this one.

Ultrawoman sighed deeply. "Hopefully the evidence Flash collected will be  
enough to bring down Roberts. Roussimoff will have plenty of problems on his  
own." There'd been a total of three dead before they'd arrived. Roussimoff was  
the prime mover for the deaths, would in a good world be sent to prison for them.  
"I'd hate to see either one walk on a technicality." She frowned. "And Flash is in  
jail. I knew I should have grabbed her before we left."

"She'll be fine," said Oracle, although Diana was not certain Oracle meant it for  
Ultrawoman or herself. "Things could be far worse."

"Oh really?" said Ultrawoman, and there was just enough mocking in the tone to  
let them both know she was playing with Oracle.

"Yes," said Oracle calmly, not letting herself be baited. She counted on her  
gauntleted fingers: "Someone could have died in the attack. Roussimoff could  
have discovered Flash's secret identity while she was drugged. On a larger note,  
Mxyzptlk could have just spaced him, and all of us, rather than merely switching  
us like this."

"And?"

Oracle paused, and raised another finger. "John could be pregnant."

Diana opened her mouth, and then shut it tight. Ultrawoman reached over and  
moved Oracle's last finger back down to her palm.

"No. Just, no."

There was a clapping sound. It was lazy, calm, almost bored. Oracle's head shot  
around to locate it. Diana went on alert, fists bunched. Ultrawoman was craning  
her neck around, x-ray vision presumably already activated.

_   
**pop**   
_

A curvy redhead floated a few inches above the ground. She brought her hands  
together in slow applause. "Very nice. Very nice. Thank you."

Oracle touched her ear. "Intruder alert!"

"Please," said the floating woman. "Your ... comms? Yes. I've disabled them  
for the time being. No need to disturb any of the others. The speedster is  
sleeping, the shapeshifter is en route, and the lovers are otherwise occupied. The  
three of you will be sufficient."

"Who are you?" Diana demanded. _Sufficient?_

"Miss Gsptlsnz," she said, and curtseyed.

"Mxyzptlk's girlfriend," Ultrawoman explained.

"Sad and pathetic, but true. It seems my dear love muffin has caused you some  
grief. He's been watching you from our dimension, laughing his little purple  
pants off."

"I'll bet," said Ultrawoman. "What do you want?"

Gsptlsnz floated in thought a moment. "Honestly? His attention back. It's a  
woman's job to decide when her man has had enough fun and needs to get back to  
work. Mxy's done. He just doesn't know it yet." She smiled, and Diana almost felt  
bad for Mxyzptlk.

"So you're going to change us back," said Oracle.

"Probably," said Gsptlsnz, "but first, I want something from you."

"Here it comes," said Ultrawoman.

"The next time Mxy comes to play, send him right back home. I've asked him to  
stop coming here."

"He promised to stay away from Earth," Ultrawoman replied.

"Then we don't have a problem. You send him home before he causes any  
trouble, I don't have to sit around watching him watching you shower."

"He _what_?" asked Diana, and then Gsptlsnz raised her hand idly.

* * *

Shayera brought two cups of fresh coffee to the table. The coffeepot was fast, and  
had to be with Flash on the team. John accepted his gratefully, and took a drink.  
He was probably drinking too much coffee these days for his own good, and yeah,  
maybe he needed to find out what kind of effect caffeine had on a human  
woman's system.

Not that he spent a lot of time around human women, mind you.

Shayera stared out the window while he drank his own coffee. He was getting a  
small but definite showing of beard going — John was going to have to teach him  
how to shave. And wouldn't _that_ be just one more checkmark on the list  
of three million or so events that he never thought would happen in his life?

"What are you thinking about?"

"Home." A smile quirked on his face. "Thinking about the people who would be ...  
surprised to see me like this." He shrugged. "Nothing new."

The tables were wide, and John was a little shorter than he was used to being, so  
he had to get up on a knee to lean far enough. His somewhat precarious  
positioning, coupled with his care to not spill hot coffee on either of them,  
resulted in a more clumsy kiss than he'd intended. His forehead bumped against  
the mask. His lips brushed more jaw than anything, and Shayera's mouth had  
been just that far enough open that he kissed John's upper lip wetly, then grasped  
it in his teeth and bit.

Warmth hit like an avalanche, and he fell, stunned. Coffee splashed to the floor,  
their cups clattering and rolling away. His mind tore in half, was rejoined.  
Nausea came and went like a memory, and then he could think, he could see, and  
the first thing he saw ...

She held her hand to her head, eyes closed. "Shayera ... " Her eyes snapped open.

"John?" The changes he felt, he saw in her welcome gaze back.

J'onn's voice shot over the comm, "What just happened?"

Superman's voice — his _normal_ voice — responded: "We got paid a visit by Miss  
Gsptlsnz. It's over. It's done."

Shayera touched her ear. "Did she fix Flash, too?"

"Affirmative."

That was a relief. Although it would cause a _lot_ of questions when he  
woke up, John was sure.

The comm went quiet. They looked at each other again. He had bruised his  
elbows collapsing, and there was coffee cooling on his butt and down his leg, but  
the only thing he could think to do at this moment was reach over the table and  
hold her, hold _her_.

He would have to go back down to the planet and help Flash sort things out, get  
him some clothes, that sort of thing. In the morning.

Right now, John had an armful of Thanagarian female, and really, Flash could  
wait.

* * *

Alfred was waiting for him when he arrived back at the Cave. His eyes widened for  
a moment as Batman exited the Batmobile.

"It is good to have you back, sir."

"Thank you, Alfred. Where's Robin?"

"He is on patrol this evening with Batgirl. At last contact, they indicated they will  
be 'calling it a night.' I expect he will be home any time."

The choice was, did he go out on patrol himself just before daybreak, make his own  
sweep just to reassure himself that all was well in his city, or did he trust that his  
partners had done an adequate job? He reached into the car and pulled out the now  
too small costume. The faceless cowl stared back at him.

"This will need cleaned," he said. "We'll put it away for now." Alfred took the  
outfit from him wordlessly. "I'm in for the evening."

"Yes, sir."

After Alfred left, he shed his uniform — his _regular_ uniform — and took a  
quick shower. He heard Robin's arrival as he finished, heard Tim start the water in  
his own shower as he dried off.

He needed to go through the data he'd collected as Oracle. But he also needed to  
inform everyone that the Batman was back.

The phone rang four times and went to the machine: "This is Dick. Leave a  
message."

"It's me," he said. "Things have returned to normal." He needed to thank Dick, for  
coming when he needed the help, for retraining him, for a lot of things. He stared at  
the phone, and then the answering machine beeped to indicate the end of the  
message space. He placed the phone back in its cradle, almost hit redial, didn't.

* * *

It was late, or early, or whatever, when Barbara got back to her apartment. She was  
bone-tired, she wanted a shower. At least it was now technically Saturday and she  
could sleep in for a bit. _Mmm. Sleep now. Shower later._

She yawned, then decided to check her email before collapsing. She clicked on her  
desk lamp.

The box was next to her computer. One end had been opened. She didn't count  
how many were gone, because that would have been too weird even for her life.

The Post-It stuck to the top said simply: "I won't need the rest of these. Thank you. B."

"Huh." She pulled off the note, folded it carefully, and put it away inside her desk,  
then sat down and turned on the computer. Kara was going to love this.

* * *

Not for the first time in his life, Wally woke up wondering where he was. Smell of  
urine, graffiti — turn head — bars. Jail. He lay there and did a quick mental round-  
up, hard to do through the fuzz living in his brain just now.

He was pretty sure gorillas had not been involved.

Things felt ... Things felt. His head cracked up and looked down his torso.  
_His_ torso.

"Oh thank God!" Right voice, too.

Okay, torso was his, clothes were not. Clothes looked like standard issue, albeit  
tight, jail togs; he had a not-entirely-clear memory of a police matron helping him  
out of the ruined dress he'd worn last night. To the party. Where the League had  
shown up to save him after a lot of badness.

His head hurt, and he was hungry, but mostly, he needed to accommodate Nature's  
interests in the matter. Never had he been so glad to unzip someone else's pants.

To be fair, he mused as he stood there, it wasn't like he made a habit of unzipping  
anyone else's pants, certainly not another guy's pants, and ...

Wally stopped thinking. It was just easier.

He looked down. "Little buddy, let's never fight again."

* * *

As he walked out of the precinct house, GL waited for him at the bottom of the  
stairs. John was back to normal, too, and currently in his civilian clothes. He had  
on dark glasses against the bright sunlight.

"You're a sight for sore eyes, man," Wally said. John gave him a half-smile, which  
was all he was going to get for a reply. They started walking. "Any reason why you  
guys left me there last night?"

"J'onn was going to pick you up, but the police got you first. How did you get  
loose? I went in to explain things but they said you were already being processed  
for release."

"Oh. Yeah. I played dumb. Told them I thought I was supposed to be in the drunk  
tank. They couldn't find Molly, I didn't match any descriptions for the goons from  
last night — Feds came for them at dawn by the way — and they couldn't find any  
charges to hold me on. I got a 'drunk and disorderly' lecture and a change of  
clothes since they, ah, _lost_ whatever I came in with." Wally sniffed and  
wrinkled his nose at the less-than-hygienic shirt and pants.

"I brought you these," said John. He'd had a bundle under his arm. "Figured you'd  
need them."

"Great! I'll change back at the apartment."

"About that. Batman says he's cancelling the lease tomorrow."

"Damn. Nice place."

"You got much there that's actually yours?"

"A few things. Why?"

John shrugged. "Gonna help you move."

They walked a while in silence; the apartment was about ten blocks away, and the  
morning was chilly but not cold.

"Too bad about the apartment. I was thinking, now that we're back in fighting  
form, maybe I could invite over some of the girls in my building for a little party."  
GL glowered at him through his shades. "Don't worry, you'd've been invited.  
Some beer, some tunes, some babes, it would've been great."

"Didn't you learn _anything_ from this past week?"

"Like what?"

John sighed deeply. "Think."

To his own surprise, Wally thought. And thought some more.

"Oh."

"Mm hm."

"No party."

"No. And the next time you see Hawkgirl and Diana?"

"_Lot_ of apologizing to do. For, um, almost everything I've ever said to  
either of them. Possibly bribe their forgiveness with chocolate."

"You may just live to see thirty, hotshot."

Wally grinned.

* * *

Home was ...

To be honest, this was not home. Home was far, and forbidden. This was merely  
her apartment, and it was exactly as she'd left it days before.

Diana spread open all the windows to let fresh air to course through the rooms and to  
allow sunlight filtered through a proper atmosphere to warm her bones despite the  
winter air. Her own bones.

She removed and folded Apollo's clothing. She considered disposing of it, instead  
placed it in the back of her closet. She might reuse the fabric on another outfit. If  
nothing else, the costume served as warning that nothing could be took for granted,  
and also a reminder that nothing could not be endured or overcome.

On her loneliest days, the latter was a welcome reminder.

On _this_ day, she would luxuriate in a bath. She would have bath oils, and  
she would have soft music, and she would have dimmed lights, and she would have  
a glass of wine, and she would have her own body to soak.

But first ...

Diana found her matches on the table. Then she lit the candles at her altar one by  
one, murmuring her gratitude to the gods.

* * *

J'onn left Superman near Metropolis and watched him fly away as the Javelin rose  
again above the trees. They had taken the day shifts together, had just been relieved  
by Lantern and Hawkgirl for the evening shifts; any concerns he might have had at  
their, ah, attention to their duties were quickly allayed by the briefest touch to  
Lantern's mind. Tonight they were focused on their work.

He did not like to pry. His abilities allowed him far more intimate knowledge of his  
friends than he desired as it was. He remembered those halcyon days, though, when  
the sun painted the world in new colors because he looked out through a lover's  
eyes. Above all else sometimes, he missed that perspective, that joy, and so while  
he did not mean to tread deeply in John's mind, he could not help taking the softest  
touch from time to time, and recalling what it was to feel that way.

The Javelin purred under his fingertips.

Mars was still at a near orbit to Earth, although no longer at its nearest. The course  
he plotted would take no time at all in a craft designed for both intrastellar and  
interstellar travel. It would be minutes, and he would still have the Javelin ready for  
Flash's use in the morning.

He could walk on the red sands again. He could find the location where his home  
had stood, could close his eyes and pretend he heard laughter from another room.  
He did not, could not dream, but he could imagine.

And as every other time when he had considered making the journey, he replotted  
his course, to leave the Javelin where Flash would know to retrieve it at daybreak  
and from there to go ...

He held his hand over the button that would finalize the new, safe course. An age  
passed before he could force himself to press down.

* * *

She perched, and John hated using that phrasing but it was true, in the Crow's Nest,  
looking over the monitoring systems. He flew up, landed beside her.

"So," he said.

"So," she replied, not looking up at him.

"Are we going to talk?"

"I'm on duty. Shouldn't you be getting a nap?"

"Not sleepy," he said, and then she did look at him. He could tell she was trying not  
to smile.

"Then go do something useful. I'm sure there's a gizmo around here that needs a  
tune-up." She turned back to the console. He slipped his hands onto her shoulders,  
starting rubbing her neck with his thumbs. "That wasn't what I meant." He started  
to pull away. "I didn't say you had to stop."

At some point, he _would_ have to stop. His thumbs were already cramping  
from the awkward angle. He could go nap while she took the first watch, and she  
would wake him and then rest as he took the second. When Flash arrived in the  
morning with the Javelin, John would ring up a bubble to take them both back to the  
planet.

First, he would make them pancakes; he'd discreetly gotten rid of all the eggs in his  
'fridge immediately after the _first_ time he'd tried to make her breakfast. He  
considered taking her on a tour of his old neighborhood, showing her the high  
school he went to, the music store that used to be the comic book store. He also  
entertained the thought of just not leaving the apartment at all, unless there was an  
alert.

John wondered how hard it would be to accidentally disable their comms for a few  
hours.

She bent her neck to let him work on a knot, as she continued to click through the  
monitors they had in place. His fingers slipped forward an inch.

_Make that several hours._

"Did you say something?"

"Uh uh." He stopped the neck rub, and then floated up.

"Off to sleep?"

"Not yet. I need to go work on the comms."

"Ooookay." That was definitely her Humor the Boyfriend voice. He liked it.

John grinned, and went off to his work.

* * *

Lois had spent the day chasing the story on the Mayor, only to watch it fizzle as an  
aide stepped forward in the afternoon and claimed full responsibility for the whole  
thing. She still had the story, but without the Mayor's name attached the piece  
would get second or third page status in the Sunday edition. Meanwhile, one of the  
weekend second-stringers had picked up the Intergang bust on his police band, and  
had snagged the story. Added to both of these, Clara had stood her up for lunch and  
had yet to so much as call, email, or show up on the news saving a busload of nuns  
in Australia.

She decided to call it an early night. She had things to do at the office, hopefully  
always would, but she was tired and grumpy and it was Saturday. On a day like this  
had been, bubble baths were mandatory.

An hour after arriving home, sufficiently pruny and well into the latest murder  
mystery from her favorite author, she padded out of the bathroom in her slippers,  
and headed into the kitchen for some chamomile tea to take with her to bed. The  
plot of the novel, involving missing heiresses and a family law firm, had dislodged  
the events of the day from her mind, so that when she initially saw the silhouette on  
her balcony, she was convinced it was Jenkins, the family butler, come to avenge  
his mistress' death.

It really had been a long day.

Superman held a brown grocery bag in his arms. "May I come in?"

She glanced down at her bathrobe, noticed for the first time that it was getting ratty  
around the hem, then shrugged. "Sure."

He followed her into the apartment, then went past her to the little kitchen table. He  
set down the bag, and pulled out an envelope, which he gave to her.

"What is it?"

"Ultrawoman told me to give you this."

"Oh. How is she?"

"I think you'd better read the letter." He folded his ,

It's safe to tell you now that I wasn't entirely honest with you, but it's  
not safe enough to tell you everything. Not yet. Perhaps never. Let's  
just say that there's an alternate dimension involved.

I loved talking with you. I feel as though we got to know each other  
well during my short stay, and I only wish we could have spent more  
time together. I doubt that you will ever see me again, and while I  
know I'll miss our late night conversations, I hope my own absence  
will leave you only with good memories.

I must be brief now, but I thought you ought to know, Superman  
thinks the world of you. He speaks of you fondly, and often. I know  
he wishes he could spend more time with you, too. Don't let him  
know I told you. He'd be embarrassed, and probably start stuttering  
or something.

Be well, my friend. I will never forget you.

Clara

Lois put the letter back into the envelope. Superman hadn't moved from where he  
stood.

"Where'd she go?" She hadn't known Clara very long, but she _felt_ as though she'd  
known the other woman for years. Lois didn't like the idea of never seeing her  
again, especially without having had a chance to say good-bye. It hurt a little, and  
Lois was surprised at the pain.

"Back where she came from, along with the others."

"Apollo?"

"And a few friends, yes." He wasn't being entirely honest with her. Imagine that.

"You ever going to tell me exactly what was up?"

"Not planning on it."

"Fine." She was used to secrets from him. "So, what's in the bag?"

He grinned — and he did have the goofiest grin she'd ever thought about kissing  
away — and pulled out a half-gallon of cookies n' cream. "She told me you had a  
weakness, and since everybody already knows mine, I thought, maybe ... " He  
pulled out two plastic spoons from the bag, and stood there awkwardly.

She debated with herself momentarily. Again, long day, and Lois had just lost a  
friend, probably forever if she knew anything about alternate dimensions. Which  
she didn't except for that one time, but that wasn't the point. The point was, Clara  
had gone home, and Superman was standing in Lois's kitchen with ice cream.

_Fondly and often, huh?_ There were worse ways to end a day.

Lois grabbed one of the spoons. "How do you take your coffee?"

* * *

Later

* * *

"Hey, baby, want a date?"

Candi was cold, and she was wet, and leaning onto the car was just getting her  
colder and wetter. She bit her teeth closed to keep them from chattering. Spring  
rains sucked.

"Why don't you get in?" The guy was young. He smiled at her. Now was the part  
where she needed to do some negotiation, but the rain pounded harder and she was  
tired. Candi got in. The car pulled away from the curb, as the door locked.

"Hey, where're we goin'?"

"For a drive."

"Okay. My ground rules are: no weird stuff, no ... "

"Candace Neumann. Born October 17th, 1986. You're from Terre Haute. You left  
home because your stepdad was a dick. You came to Metropolis because you  
wanted to sing."

Candi froze. "How the hell did you know that?"

The guy sighed. "You used to, um, hang out with Wes Roberts. There was another  
girl there. Molly. We're close." Candi remembered her. Molly was a dog, but  
Tessi had said any girl looked good in the dark, and had fast-tracked her for the  
street anyway. Nobody had seen Molly after the raid. Candi couldn't see much in  
the dark, but she thought she saw a resemblance. The guy looked older than  
Molly had. Sadder, maybe.

"Are you a cop?" She was more cold than scared. The guy flipped on the heater.

"No. Neither was she. We're just ... You need help."

"Let me out."

"I want to make you an offer." Now she was on more solid ground.

"Fifty."

"Can you type?"

"A little," she said, surprised. _Maybe he likes his secretary?_

"Then you can learn more. You can do data entry. Get your GED at night."

"Huh?" This was not going according to the rules.

"I know this man. He ... arranges things. People. I think maybe he's got  
someone's nuts in a vise somewhere. Anyway. He says he's got a job for you, if  
you want it. A real job. It won't pay a lot, but I promise you, as long as you show  
up and do your best, it will always pay enough."

"Look, pal, I don't know what you're selling or preaching, but I don't want either  
one. I don't need 'saving.'"

"I'm not here to save you." The rain pounded harder, made the windshield into  
frosted, melting glass, beaten by the wipers. Very quietly, she heard him say, "This  
time." Louder, he said, "I'm here to offer you a second chance."

"Let me guess. I'm supposed to be overtaken by gratitude now and give you one for  
free? Maybe one for your friend, too?"

They drove on. Finally, he said, "This guy I know? He's a complete freak. There's  
a girl we both know. She's tried to kill him, at least a dozen times. And still every  
time he meets up with her, he tries to talk her into leaving her asshole of a  
boyfriend. Because she deserves better." He looked at her. "You deserve better,  
Candi."

She wrapped her arms around herself. She'd been called some bad things in her  
life, and a few of them were probably true. She didn't get why someone telling her  
she was worth more upset her so much, and she didn't like it.

"You don't have to take the offer. I can drop you off, and you can find another guy  
tonight, and a couple tomorrow, and you can sleep your room and board for the rest  
of your life. Maybe the next time Intergang gets rolling, you'll still have enough of  
your looks left to get a spot as somebody's floozy again. Maybe one of these  
nights, you'll have a client who gets mean, and the cops will be chalking your  
outline in an alley. Or you can show up here tomorrow at nine a.m.." He handed  
her a card. "Tell them your name. They'll be expecting you. Staci's already  
working there. You can take your second chance. It's up to you."

"I don't need saved," she repeated.

"Because you're special. Tessi told you so, didn't she?" Candi didn't say anything.  
"She told everyone that." Something in his voice ...

"She said I could stay at the house. I wasn't going to be like the other girls." _She  
probably told everyone THAT, too,_ came a bitter little voice from inside her head.

"You don't have to be. You can be ... "

"All that I can be?" She threw in as much sarcasm as she could.

"Who you want to be. You're the only one who knows who that is. Think of this as  
a chance to find out." He stopped the car and unlocked the doors. They were in  
front of her apartment.

Candi got out. She wasn't asking how he knew where she lived.

The rain hadn't stopped. If anything, it had gotten colder. This was a bad spring all  
around. Bird guys had tried to take over the world, and now it was unseasonably  
cold and wet, and it just wasn't fair.

She wanted to say something to the guy. Maybe ask him how _he'd_ like it if  
no one ever thought he had a brain because he had boobs. How _he'd_ deal if on  
the one hand people said that if he didn't put out he was frigid and a tease, and if he  
did he was just a slut and deserved whatever he got. How _he'd_ be able to look  
himself in the mirror when men saw him as something to use and other women  
saw him as something to scorn if they saw him at all. She wanted to shout at him,  
and nothing came out at all.

The guy nodded his head at her. For some crazy reason she thought he knew what  
she was trying to say but couldn't. He drove off. She watched his tail lights vanish  
around the corner.

Candi looked at the card in her fingers, then started to flick it away into the nearest  
puddle. Instead she tucked it into her bra.

Rain pounded her hair and drenched her clothes all the way through. If she went  
inside, went to bed, she could be up and dressed and at the address on the card  
by nine. As heinous as her apartment was, the bed was dry and was warmer than  
this, and she was tired.

Candi unlocked the front door to her building, and went inside.

* * *

The End

* * *

FUZZY END VOICE CASTING by **mannoftalent**:  
Ultrawoman / Clara - Elizabeth Rohm  
Oracle / Brynne - Claudia Christian  
Green Lantern / Jane - Gina Torres  
Hawkman - Adam Baldwin  
Flash / Molly - Allison Mack  
Apollo - Kevin Sorbo  
J'onn Jonzz - Carl Lumbly

* * *

A/N: Remember, if you've read it all the way through, drop a comment. You don't  
have to say it rocked your socks. Just say that you read it. Feed your authors, and  
they'll write you more.  



End file.
